Page 24 of The Dark Lord Awakens
Azrael left his private sanctuary, locking it with both key and spell. The night stretched before him, filled with purpose. Lucien’s clothing must be selected, the bath prepared, the breakfast menu finalized. Every detail of the coming day must be anticipated and arranged for his master’s comfort and convenience.
Sleep was for lesser beings. Beings who didn’t have the privilege of serving perfection incarnate.
Dawn had barely begun to stain the eastern sky when Azrael entered the castle kitchens. The staff had learned quickly that their new schedule began well before sunrise—those who hadn’t adapted had been replaced. Efficiency required sacrifice. Usually someone else’s.
“The shadow bean brew,” Azrael announced without preamble, materializing beside Head Chef 001 Ramsay with silent grace. “Has it been modified as instructed?”
The corpulent demon nearly dropped the cleaver he was using to dismember something with too many limbs to identify. “Y-yes, Lord Azrael! We’ve adjusted the bitterness as you requested and added a hint of sweetness from void honey.”
“Show me.”
A steaming cup was hastily presented. Azrael inspected it with narrowed eyes, noting the richer color and thicker consistency. He did not drink—food and beverages were largely unnecessary for his kind—but he could evaluate quality through scent and appearance.
“Acceptable,” he pronounced after a moment’s consideration. “Prepare a full pot for Lord Lucien’s breakfast, along with the usual selection of pastries. And ensure the bloodoranges are properly chilled this time. Yesterday’s offering was room temperature.”
“Of course, Lord Azrael! Right away!” Head Chef 001 Ramsay’s multiple eyes blinked in asynchronous panic as he barked orders to his underlings.
Azrael watched the flurry of activity with cold satisfaction. Fear was an excellent motivator. Love might be more powerful, but it was far more difficult to instill on short notice.
He turned his attention to the breakfast spread being assembled. The arrangement was almost artistic—pastries in shades of midnight blue and deep purple, fruits cut with surgical precision, meats seared to perfection. Each item had been selected for both aesthetic appeal and nutritional value. Lord Lucien had displayed an unexpected appetite since his awakening, consuming more food in three days than he had in the final year before his slumber.
Azrael found this change oddly endearing. There was something deeply satisfying about watching his master eat, about providing sustenance and seeing it enjoyed. A primal pleasure in fulfilling such a basic need.
“The presentation is adequate,” he informed the head chef, who sagged with relief. “Have it delivered to the antechamber of Lord Lucien’s quarters at precisely seven. Not a minute earlier or later.”
“Yes, Lord Azrael!”
With breakfast arranged, Azrael moved on to his next task. The bathing chamber required preparation—a duty he reserved exclusively for himself. No other hands would touch the items that would, in turn, touch his master’s skin.
The massive obsidian tub dominated the center of the bathing chamber, its black surface gleaming in the soft light of blue-flamed lanterns. Azrael moved around it with practicedefficiency, checking the temperature controls, the water quality, the arrangement of oils and soaps on the nearby table.
From an inner pocket of his tailcoat, he produced a small crystal vial containing a liquid that shifted between midnight blue and deep purple. His own creation—a cleansing oil infused with shadow essence and rare herbs from the void realms. It would leave Lucien’s skin subtly luminous and his hair like liquid silk. More importantly, it would mark him with Azrael’s scent—an invisible claim that other demons would unconsciously recognize and respect.
Three drops into the waiting water. No more, no less. The liquid bloomed outward like ink, transforming the clear water into a swirling galaxy of dark colors. Perfect.
Next came the towels—black, of course, and impossibly soft. He arranged them with precise folds, placing them exactly where he would need them during the bathing ritual. The temperature in the room was adjusted to exact specifications—warm enough for comfort but cool enough to make the hot water feel especially welcoming.
Everything in its place. Everything perfect for his master.
As he completed his preparations, Azrael allowed himself a moment of anticipation. The bathing ritual was both exquisite torture and cherished privilege. To be permitted such intimate service, to attend to his master’s most personal needs—it was an honor beyond measure. That it also tested the limits of his control was merely… incidental.
The clock on the wall showed quarter to seven. Time to select Lord Lucien’s attire for the day.
The wardrobe was Azrael’s particular pride. He had maintained Lucien’s clothing collection throughout the centuries, preserving the finest pieces while updating the selection with new creations as styles evolved. The result was anextensive collection that blended timeless elegance with subtle modern influences.
For today, he selected an ensemble in deepest blue with silver accents—colors that would complement Lucien’s coloring while projecting appropriate authority. The fabric was light enough for comfort but structured enough to enhance his master’s refined build. Each piece was laid out on the dressing stand in the order it would be needed, from undergarments (silk, of course) to the final touches of jewelry and accessories.
With everything prepared, Azrael took his position outside Lucien’s bedchamber door. The castle was beginning to stir around him, servants moving through distant corridors, guards changing shifts at the outer walls. But here, in this private wing, silence reigned. Sacred silence, soon to be broken by the only voice that mattered.
Azrael checked his pocket watch. One minute to seven.
He closed his eyes briefly, centering himself. When he opened them, his expression was once again a mask of perfect composure—the ideal butler, efficient and dignified. No hint of the desperate need that churned beneath the surface. No trace of the possessive hunger that haunted his every waking moment.
The watch ticked over to seven precisely. Azrael opened the door and stepped into his master’s chamber.
“Good morning, my lord,” he said, his voice perfectly modulated despite the way his heart quickened at the sight of Lucien’s sleeping form. “I trust you slept well?”
Lord Lucien startled awake with an undignified yelp, clutching the sheets to his chest like armor. His silver hair stood in delightful disarray, and his eyes—those sapphire pools that Azrael could drown in willingly—were wide with momentary panic.
