Page 8 of The Dark Lord Awakens
Azrael appeared behind him in the mirror, unable to maintain distance any longer. Standing this close, he could detect Lucien’s scent—that unique combination of shadow magic and something intrinsicallyhimthat Azrael had preserved in a crystal vial beside his bed, opening it on the darkest nights when his loneliness threatened to consume him.
“Is something amiss, my lord?” he asked, scanning his master’s reflection for any flaw, any imperfection he might havemissed. There was none. Lucien was exactly as he should be—exactly as Azrael had kept him.
From this proximity, he could see the pulse beating in Lucien’s throat. Could count each silver eyelash. Could feel the warmth radiating from his body—a warmth Azrael had been denied for centuries. It took every ounce of his considerable willpower not to reach out and touch, to confirm that warmth with his own hands.
“Just… taking inventory,” Lord Lucien said weakly. “So, Azrael, catch me up. What’s been happening while I’ve been, uh, napping for centuries?”
Azrael felt a surge of relief. This was familiar territory—reports, facts, information. Things he could provide without revealing the storm of emotions threatening to crack his perfect facade.
“The realm has maintained its borders, though not without difficulty,” he began, his voice steady despite his proximity to Lucien. “The demon nobles have grown ambitious in your absence. The humans in the surrounding kingdoms have expanded their territories and strengthened their armies. And the heroes…” He paused, his jaw tightening slightly at the thought of those self-righteous fools who had dared to harm what belonged to him. “The heroes believe you vanquished, my lord. They grow bolder by the day.”
“Heroes,” Lord Lucien repeated, and something in his tone made Azrael’s protective instincts flare.
“They are not spoken of in your presence, my lord,” he said, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice despite his best efforts. “They are your sworn enemies, the ones who—” He stopped abruptly, not wanting to upset his master with such unpleasantness so soon after awakening. Not wanting to reveal his own failure to protect Lucien from them. “Forgive me. I should not speak of such unpleasantness upon your awakening.”
Lord Lucien asked more questions, each one stranger than the last. When he inquired about the events leading to his slumber, Azrael provided the official account—the one he had maintained for centuries. The truth was more complicated, more painful, but this was neither the time nor place for such revelations.
“And you’ve been waiting all this time?” Lord Lucien asked, his voice soft with what sounded like genuine concern. “For hundreds of years?”
The question caught Azrael off guard. No one had ever asked how he felt about his vigil. No one had ever considered that it might have been a burden rather than a duty. But it hadn’t been—not really. Every day at Lucien’s side, even in slumber, had been a privilege.
“I would wait millennia if necessary, my lord,” Azrael said, meaning every word with absolute certainty. His gaze locked with Lucien’s in the mirror, allowing a fraction of his devotion to show through his carefully maintained mask. “My existence is bound to yours. My purpose is to serve you.”
Lord Lucien seemed taken aback by his intensity. “Well,” he said, clapping his hands together, breaking the moment, “I suppose I should… get back to evil overlording, then? Is there a manual? A daily agenda?Evil Overlording for Dummies, perhaps?”
Azrael blinked, momentarily caught off guard. This humor was unexpected—so different from the cold dignity his lord had once possessed. It was… charming, in a way he hadn’t anticipated. The novelty of it almost pulled a smile from him, something that hadn’t happened in three hundred years of rigid formality.
“There are pressing matters requiring your attention, my lord, but nothing that cannot wait until you have fully recovered,” he said, allowing his voice to soften slightly.“Perhaps you would like to bathe and dress first? I have taken the liberty of preparing your chambers.”
Lord Lucien’s stomach growled loudly, and Azrael felt a surge of protectiveness. His lord was hungry. This was something he could fix immediately. This was a need he could fulfill, a way to be useful, to be necessary.
“And perhaps breakfast?” he suggested, already mentally reviewing the kitchens’ inventory, calculating what delicacies could be prepared most quickly.
“Yes, definitely breakfast,” Lord Lucien agreed eagerly. “Food first, evil schemes later. That’s my motto.”
“As you wish, my lord.” Azrael bowed deeply, ready to fulfill his role. The thought of providing for Lucien, of meeting his needs after so long, sent a wave of satisfaction through him. “I shall have the kitchens prepare your favorite dishes.”
As he turned to leave, Lord Lucien called after him. “Azrael? One more thing.”
He paused, looking back expectantly, cataloging the way the morning light caught in Lucien’s silver hair, the way his eyes seemed to shift between shades of blue depending on the angle.
“Thank you,” Lord Lucien said sincerely. “For, you know, waiting for me. For not giving up.”
Something shifted in Azrael’s chest—a warm, unfamiliar sensation that spread through him like wildfire. For just a moment, he allowed his formal mask to slip, revealing a glimpse of the devotion that consumed him.
“It is my honor to serve you, Lord Lucien,” he said quietly, the words inadequate to express the centuries of longing, of purpose, of obsession. “Always.”
The moment stretched between them, heavy with unspoken meaning, before Azrael bowed once more and slipped from the room.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Azrael leaned against the wall, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His hands—hands that had dismembered enemies without trembling—shook violently as he pressed them against the cold stone. His heart hammered so hard he could hear it, a frantic rhythm that threatened to crack his ribs.
Lucien was awake. Lucien was alive. Lucien had thanked him.
A sound escaped him—half laugh, half sob—before he could strangle it. He pressed his forehead against the wall, eyes squeezed shut as waves of emotion crashed through him. Relief. Joy. Hunger. Need. Three centuries of waiting, of longing, of purpose fulfilled in a single moment.
His lord had returned to him.
When he had regained some semblance of control, Azrael reached into his pocket and withdrew a small crystal orb—one of dozens he kept on his person at all times. With a whispered incantation, he pressed his fingertip to his temple, drawing out a silvery strand of memory.
