Page 6 of The Dark Lord Awakens
“The Groston Empire has expanded their territory again.” His lip curled in disgust, revealing the edge of a fang before he smoothed his expression back to perfect neutrality. “Their so-called heroes lead their armies. Self-righteous creatures playing at nobility while plotting to destroy everything you’ve built.”
The thought of those heroes—those enemies—threatening what belonged to Lucien sent a wave of possessive rage through him. His nails lengthened momentarily into claws before he forced them back to human appearance.
“I look forward to the day you awaken and allow me to show them the true meaning of power,” he continued, voice dropping to a silken purr. “I’ve composed a list of punishments. Two hundred and seventeen methods, each more exquisite than the last. Perhaps you’ll allow me to demonstrate them for your amusement.”
The thought of Lucien watching him work—of earning one of those rare, perfect smiles—sent a pleasant shiver down Azrael’s spine. He would slaughter entire kingdoms to see that smile again. Had, in fact, during the early years of his lord’s reign.
Azrael approached the bed, his movements shifting from efficient to reverent. He drew back the silken sheets with careful precision to begin his daily care ritual.
Lord Lucien lay exactly as he had for centuries—perfect, pristine, untouched by time. His silver-white hair spilled across the pillow like moonlight captured in silk, each strand exactly as Azrael had arranged it the previous evening. His milk-white skin glowed with an ethereal luminescence that no human could ever possess. His features remained as striking as the day he had fallen into his enchanted sleep—high cheekbones, straight nose, full lips that Azrael had preserved with obsessive care.
“You’ve lost no majesty in your slumber, my lord,” Azrael murmured, allowing himself this small indulgence of honesty in private. His gaze traced the curve of Lucien’s jaw, the sweep of his lashes, the perfect bow of his lips. “You remain the most beautiful being in all the realms.”
He produced a crystal vial filled with a shimmering liquid—his own creation, perfected over centuries of meticulous experimentation. The preservation spell required renewal every morning. A necessary intimacy. His only permitted indulgence.
Carefully, he tipped three drops onto his fingertips and began to trace them over his master’s face. His heart raced at the contact—pathetic, really, after all these centuries. Like a lovesick youth rather than an ancient demon.
Azrael’s touch remained clinical despite the heat unfurling in his chest. His fingers moved over Lord Lucien’s forehead, down the elegant slope of his nose, across his cheekbones. The magic resonated through his fingertips, confirming what he already knew—his master remained perfectly preserved.
His thumb hesitated a fraction of a second before brushing across Lucien’s lower lip. So soft. So still. The urge to linger there, to press harder—Azrael pulled his hand back before temptation could take root. He would sooner tear out his own heart than take such liberties with his unconscious master.
“The kitchen has prepared your favorite blood orchid tea,” he continued, voice steady once more as he carefully replaced the sheets. “I’ve kept your domain secure. The border defenses have been reinforced, and the scouts report no significant threats to the eastern provinces.”
As he worked, his mind drifted to the day Lord Lucien had created him. Unlike other demons’ chaotic births from pain or madness, Azrael had simply… appeared. Fully formed with an unshakeable devotion already burning in his chest like a star gone supernova.
“I have created you to be my most loyal servant,” Lord Lucien had told him upon his creation. “You are Azrael, my butler. You will be efficient, deadly, and unwaveringly loyal.”
And so he was. By design. By choice. By obsession. By a need that transcended any mortal understanding of devotion.
Azrael had served at his lord’s side for only seven years before the catastrophe. The battle that should have cemented Lord Lucien’s dominion over all the realms had instead resulted in disaster. The spell had backfired, and Lord Lucien had collapsed, his life force flickering like a candle in a storm.
The heroes had celebrated their victory, believing the Dark Lord would remain asleep for millennia. Fools. Azrael had spirited his master away, established the enchantment to preserve him, and begun his vigil. A vigil that had stretched from years into decades, from decades into centuries.
He had maintained the Dark Realm in his lord’s absence, ruling with an iron fist where necessary, manipulating from the shadows where possible. Seventeen attempted coups crushed beneath his heel. Thirty-nine traitors whose screams still echoed in the dungeon walls. Countless throats opened for daring to suggest Lord Lucien might never return.
The memory of their deaths brought a smile to his lips. Service took many forms, and violence in his master’s name was perhaps the most satisfying. He had kept the realm intact, if not prosperous, preserving it like a gift to be presented upon his master’s awakening.
Azrael completed the preservation ritual and gently replaced the sheets, ensuring they draped perfectly over his master’s form. Next came the room itself. He produced a cloth and began to dust the already spotless surfaces, his movements precise and efficient.
“The demon brats have started another turf war in the lower city,” he continued his report, polishing a surface that alreadygleamed. “I resolved it by hanging the ringleaders from the west tower for three days. They’ve been remarkably well behaved since. The youngest one had such fascinating tear ducts—they produced crystals rather than liquid. I’ve saved them for you in case you wish to use them in your spellwork.”
He moved to the fireplace, adjusting the blue flames with a wave of his hand. Lord Lucien had always preferred a cooler temperature in his chambers.
“I’ve maintained your collection of books. The library continues to grow. I’ve added several volumes I believe you would find interesting, including rare tomes on governance and magical theory. I’ve bookmarked a few techniques that might prove useful when rebuilding your forces.”
As he worked, Azrael felt that familiar ache settle in his chest. The devotion had not diminished with time; if anything, it had grown stronger, more consuming, more desperate. He had created a small shrine in his own chambers—a collection of items that represented Lord Lucien’s reign. A ceremonial dagger. A strand of shadow essence. A quill his lord had once used.
Perfectly normal keepsakes for a loyal steward. Certainly nothing that would be considered concerning or obsessive. He most certainly did not sometimes hold these items to his chest in the darkest hours of night, pretending they still carried Lucien’s warmth. That would be pathetic, and Azrael was many things, but pathetic was not among them.
With his daily duties completed, Azrael adjusted the curtains one final time and prepared to leave. He paused at the foot of the bed, allowing himself one last lingering look at his sleeping master—a ritual he had performed countless times over the centuries.
“Until tomorrow, my lord,” he murmured, the words a promise and a prayer.
As he turned toward the door, a flicker of movement caught his attention. A subtle shift in the air, a whisper of magic that hadn’t stirred in three hundred years. Azrael froze, hardly daring to believe what his senses told him.
He turned slowly, afraid that hope might shatter this moment like fragile glass.
And then—miracle of miracles—Lord Lucien’s eyes opened. Those sapphire blue eyes, more vibrant than Azrael remembered, blinked in confusion at the canopy above.
