Page 5 of The Dark Lord Awakens
Great. No pressure or anything.
“Well,” I said, clapping my hands together and immediately regretting the loud noise, “I suppose I should… get back to evil overlording, then? Is there a manual? A daily agenda?Evil Overlording for Dummies, perhaps?”
Azrael’s lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. “There are pressing matters requiring your attention, my lord, but nothing that cannot wait until you have fully recovered. Perhaps you would like to bathe and dress first? I have taken the liberty of preparing your chambers.”
As if on cue, my stomach growled loudly—apparently dimensional travel worked up an appetite. Azrael didn’t react, but I swear I saw that almost-smile again.
“And perhaps breakfast?” he suggested.
“Yes, definitely breakfast,” I agreed eagerly. “Food first, evil schemes later. That’s my motto.”
“As you wish, my lord.” Azrael bowed deeply. “I shall have the kitchens prepare your favorite dishes.”
As he turned to leave, a thought struck me. “Azrael? One more thing.”
He paused, looking back at me expectantly.
“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “For, you know, waiting for me. For not giving up.”
Something shifted in Azrael’s expression—a softening around the eyes, perhaps, or a slight relaxation of his rigid posture. For just a moment, I glimpsed something beyond the perfect butler facade—something almost… human.
“It is my honor to serve you, Lord Lucien,” he said quietly. “Always.”
As the door closed behind him, I sank back onto the bed, my head spinning. Somehow, I’d gone from being hit by a truck in New York to waking up as an evil overlord in a fantasy realm. My butler was a demon who’d waited centuries for me to wake up. And I was expected to rule a kingdom of darkness when I couldn’t even manage my student loan payments.
“Well, Beau,” I muttered to myself, “looks like you’ve finally found something worse than customer service.”
2
Azrael
Three hundred and seventy-two years, four months, sixteen days, nine hours, and twenty-three minutes.
That was how long Azrael had been waiting. Not that he was counting. Not that every second without his master felt like a blade twisting beneath his skin.
Dawn bled across Iferona’s skyline, painting the Dark Citadel in shades of crimson that made Azrael’s mouth water. He moved through the corridors like a shadow given form, each step measured, controlled. Perfect. Always perfect.
Servants pressed themselves against the walls as he passed, terror rolling off them in delicious waves. Their fear pleased him—they should fear the right hand of the Dark King. The last servant who’d failed to show proper deference now served a more useful purpose.
The key to Lord Lucien’s chambers burned against his palm like a brand. His most treasured possession, never entrusted to another. The last fool who’d asked to clean these sacred rooms had learned the true meaning of “permanent position.” The candelabra’s flames still screamed when lit—a pleasant reminder during Azrael’s evening duties.
He slipped inside the chamber that housed his entire reason for existence, his purpose, his obsession.
Lucien.
The room was immaculate—he personally cleaned it twice daily, though no dust dared settle in this sanctified space. The massive four-poster bed dominated the center, black silk canopy flowing like liquid shadow around his sleeping master’s form. The sight sent familiar heat coursing through Azrael’s veins, devotion tangled into something dark and desperate.
Even after centuries, the mere sight of Lucien struck him like a physical blow. That perfect face, those elegant features he’d preserved with fanatical dedication. His master, his lord, his everything. But control was everything. Control was perfection.
“Good morning, my lord,” he said, voice perfectly modulated despite the storm raging beneath his skin. “The realm awaits your awakening, as always.”
No response. There never was. But Azrael continued the one-sided conversation anyway, savoring these private moments when he could speak freely to his sleeping king.
“Demon Knight Captain 002 is growing more insolent by the day.” His eyes flashed crimson at the memory, temperature dropping several degrees around him. “Yesterday, he suggested we should consider naming a new ruler.”
Azrael’s fingers twitched with remembered pleasure. “I removed three of his fingers. He should count himself fortunate I stopped there. The urge to tear out his throat was… considerable.” A small smile curved his lips. “I kept the fingers, of course. They make rather elegant letter openers when properly preserved. Perhaps you’d like to use one when you return to us.”
He moved to the windows, adjusting the heavy velvet curtains with precise movements. The beam of light that cut through the darkness illuminated dust motes dancing in the air—so like the blood mist that hung suspended after a particularly enthusiastic execution. Beautiful, in its way.
