Page 57 of The Dark Lord Awakens
The soldiers nodded eagerly, their earlier fear replaced by attentiveness. They moved to the next collapsed tent and began following Lord Lucien’s instructions, working with newfound confidence.
Lord Lucien rose, dusting off his hands again, and turned to find Azrael staring at him. “What?” he asked with that same halfsmile that had been appearing with increasing frequency since his awakening.
Azrael struggled to formulate a response that would not overstep his bounds. “My lord, such tasks are… traditionally performed by servants. Your attention could be better directed toward more significant matters.” Like allowing me to attend to your every need, he did not add. Like permitting me to shield you from these trivial concerns, as I have done for centuries. Like returning to your chambers where I could worship you properly, away from these undeserving eyes.
“What could be more important than making sure people have somewhere to sleep tonight?” Lord Lucien countered. “Besides, now they know how to do it right, which means all the tents will be up before dinner. Work smarter, not harder—Business Management 101.”
Before Azrael could respond, a cry went up from the northern entrance. The first groups of citizens were arriving, escorted by Lady Shadowfax’s agents. They shuffled forward hesitantly, gaunt faces upturned in wonder at the camp that had materialized overnight. Many clutched malnourished children to their chests; others supported elderly demons who could barely walk.
The sight of such weakness would normally have disgusted Azrael. These were the dregs of demonkind, the failures who couldn’t survive the natural order of Iferona. Their suffering was of their own making, their hunger a consequence of their inadequacy. In the past, he had occasionally authorized culls of the weakest specimens—a mercy, really, and a way to conserve resources for the worthy.
He had particularly enjoyed selecting which ones would be removed. There was an art to it—choosing those whose suffering would be most instructive to others, whose absence would cause the most efficient redistribution of resources. The executionsthemselves had been perfunctory, merely a necessary function rather than a source of pleasure. He wasn’t a monster, after all. Just practical.
And yet, watching Lord Lucien’s expression soften as he gazed upon them, Azrael felt an unfamiliar twinge in his chest. Something that, in a lesser being, might have been called… empathy? No, surely not. More likely it was simply his attunement to his master’s emotions, a reflection of Lord Lucien’s concern rather than any genuine feeling of his own.
“They’re here,” Lord Lucien said quietly. “Let’s make sure everything goes smoothly.”
He strode toward the registration area, leaving Azrael to follow in his wake. The citizens who recognized their Dark Lord immediately prostrated themselves, trembling violently. One mother, holding a skeletal infant, was so overcome with terror that she nearly dropped her child in her haste to show proper deference.
Lord Lucien quickly stepped forward and caught the infant before it could fall, gently returning it to its mother’s arms. “Whoa, careful there. Please, everybody up, no need for the whole face-in-dirt thing. This is a help center, not a ‘grovel or die’ situation.”
The demons rose slowly, confusion evident in their gaunt faces. They had been conditioned for generations to fear their dark lord, to expect cruelty rather than kindness from his hand. This gentle figure before them, with concern in his sapphire eyes, contradicted everything they had been taught.
Azrael watched, fascinated despite himself. In three hundred years of ruling in Lucien’s stead, he had never once considered that fear might not be the most effective tool of governance. Fear was efficient. Fear was reliable. Fear required minimal effort to maintain once properly established.
This approach—this kindness—was inefficient, messy, unpredictable. And yet, as he observed the changing expressions on the citizens’ faces, Azrael was forced to acknowledge that it was producing results he had never achieved through centuries of terror.
It was… educational.
“So, welcome to Camp Not-Dying-Of-Hunger,” Lord Lucien continued, addressing the growing crowd. “Game plan is simple—you’ll get registered by family or whatever group you live in, then get food, water, and a place to crash. If you’re really sick, Healer 47 and her team will hook you up with special care in the medical tents.” He gestured to the various stations that had been established. “There’s plenty for everyone, so no pushing or shoving, okay? Just follow the instructions and you’ll be eating dinner before you know it.”
The demons stared in disbelief, as if expecting this to be some elaborate trick—a prelude to some new torment. Azrael understood their suspicion. The previous Lucien might indeed have staged such a scene for his amusement, offering hope only to snatch it away at the moment of greatest vulnerability. Azrael himself had orchestrated such entertainments on particularly dull evenings, finding a certain artistic satisfaction in the moment hope transformed to despair.
But this Lucien merely smiled and turned to Sir Formalitee. “Let’s get this registration party started.”
The administrative demon bowed deeply. “At once, my lord. Protocol 14B: Orderly Processing of Relief Recipients is ready for immediate implementation.”
As the citizens were guided to the registration tables, Azrael observed their reactions closely. The initial fear remained, but it was gradually being tempered by something else—something Azrael recognized but had rarely witnessed in Iferona’s citizens when they gazed upon their lord.
Hope.
It was… unsettling. Like watching water flow upward or fire burn cold. A fundamental violation of the natural order as he understood it.
Throughout the morning, Azrael remained at Lord Lucien’s side as he moved through the camp, overseeing each aspect of the relief effort. The dark lord seemed to be everywhere at once—helping distribute food at one moment, assisting Healer 47 with organizing medical supplies the next, even demonstrating to bewildered citizens how to operate the water purification stations.
Azrael followed like a shadow, never more than a few steps behind his master. This closeness was both pleasure and torment—to be near enough to catch Lucien’s scent, to observe the graceful movement of his body, to hear the melodic cadence of his voice… yet to be forbidden from touching, from claiming, from possessing. It was exquisite torture, and Azrael savored every moment of it.
“You just turn this handle, like this,” Lord Lucien explained to a group of wide-eyed imps, producing a stream of clear water from the spigot. “Clean water, ready to drink. No boiling, no weird purification spells, no hoping the parasites are the friendly kind.”
One of the imps, bolder than the rest, cautiously approached and accepted the cup of water Lord Lucien offered. He sniffed it suspiciously, then took a tentative sip. His eyes widened dramatically.
“It’s… sweet,” the imp whispered in awe. “And cold!”
“That’s what water’s supposed to taste like when it’s not ninety percent sewer runoff,” Lord Lucien replied with another of those genuine smiles.
The imp stared at him for a long moment, then did something that nearly stopped Azrael’s heart. He smiled back.
A common imp. Smiling. At the dark lord.
