Page 91 of The Dark Lord Awakens
The castle staff had undergone a transformation as well over the past month. Gone were the ragged, terrified servants of the old regime, replaced by demons in crisp uniforms clearly inspired by Earth formal service. The butlers wore tailcoats with white gloves, while the serving staff were dressed in sleek black-and-white ensembles. Even the chefs, visible through the open doors to the kitchen, sported traditional white coats and tall hats.
“This is… impressive,” I told Azrael as I surveyed the room, trying desperately to focus on the décor rather than the lingering sensation of his fingers against my chest from earlier. My skin still tingled where he’d touched me, like he’d left some invisiblemark that only I could feel. “The staff has really embraced the whole ‘five-star service’ concept.”
“They have been studying the void hospitality manuals with remarkable dedication, my lord,” Azrael replied, standing close enough that I could feel the coolness radiating from him. Had he always stood this close, or was this new since our almost-moment upstairs? Either way, it was making it hard to concentrate on anything except the memory of how he’d looked at me in the mirror, that flash of hunger in his eyes before the clock interrupted. “Head Chef 001 Ramsay has personally overseen twenty-seven practice dinners to perfect tonight’s menu.”
“Twenty-seven? Who ate all that food?”
“The staff, my lord. They have developed quite sophisticated palates over the past month. Head Chef 001 Ramsay now requires them to provide detailed critique of each dish before it is approved for service.”
I laughed at the image of terrified demon servants being forced to give feedback on gourmet cuisine. “From trembling in fear to food critics in a month. That’s what I call personal growth.”
“Indeed, my lord. Though I am concerned about the ice sculptures. Certain artistic liberties have been taken that may not be entirely… appropriate.”
I followed his gaze to the elaborate ice carving at the center of the dessert table and nearly choked on my own spit. There, in all its frozen glory, stood what could only be described as a demon bodybuilder mid-flex, sporting muscles that would make bodybuilders weep with envy and—most notably—an impressively proportioned package on full display.
“Holy crap, is that anatomically correct?” I asked, tilting my head for a better view. “Because if so, I think someone’s been taking artistic license with demon proportions. That’s not an icesculpture; it’s a frigid fertility god. Did the sculptor use you as a model or something?”
Azrael’s expression remained perfectly composed, though I swear I saw the faintest hint of color touch his pale cheeks. “An… enthusiastic interpretation of classical demonic statuary, my lord. I shall have it modified before the guests arrive.”
“No, leave it.” I grinned. “It’ll be a conversation starter. Besides, I want to see Lord Whatshisface’s face when he realizes he’s seated directly across from it. The man’s going to spend the entire meal trying not to make eye contact with a frosty demon dong.”
A ghost of a smile touched Azrael’s lips. “As you wish, my lord.”
The first guests to arrive were my department heads, and I had to do a double take at their transformations. Magister Wiggles floated in wearing robes that seemed alive, shifting colors in perfect harmony with the magical patterns swirling beneath his translucent skin. The effect was hypnotic, like watching the world’s most elegant lava lamp.
Lady Shadowfax had solidified her usually misty form into something distinctly feminine, wrapped in what appeared to be a gown made from actual starlight. With each step, constellations rippled across the fabric, creating the illusion that she was wearing the night sky itself.
General Smashington had abandoned his usual battle armor for what I could only describe as demon formal wear—a structured outfit that accommodated his massive arms while still managing to look elegant rather than ridiculous. His ceremonial weapons had been replaced with elaborate jeweled armbands that glinted menacingly in the chandelier light.
Duke Splashypants entered with an impressive flourish, his webbed hands adorned with luminescent pearl rings. He wore flowing robes in shades of deep blue and green that rippled likewater with his every movement, creating the illusion he was perpetually submerged. His formal title medallion—”Master of the Moist Dominion”—gleamed prominently at his throat as he announced himself with characteristic gurgling dignity.
Sir Formalitee arrived precisely on time, his paperlike skin rustling softly as he moved. He wore what appeared to be an administrative uniform elevated to formal wear, with each document-thin layer meticulously arranged and stamped with official seals. He carried a small clipboard even now, occasionally making notes as he observed the proceedings with bureaucratic intensity.
Lord Taxman had exchanged his usual practical attire for something that could only be described as “ostentatiously austere”—a perfectly tailored suit in deepest black, adorned with tiny golden coins that served as buttons and cuff links. His spectacles gleamed in the chandelier light as he mentally calculated the value of everything in the room, his fingers twitching slightly as if working an invisible abacus.
Mistress Pokey made perhaps the most dramatic entrance, her bark-like skin now polished to a high sheen and adorned with living flowers that bloomed and changed colors with her mood. Her formal attire incorporated actual living plants that twisted elegantly around her form, with tiny luminescent fruits hanging like jewels from vines that coiled around her arms. The effect was both beautiful and slightly unsettling, as the plants seemed to respond to her emotions, stretching toward those she favored and subtly recoiling from those she didn’t.
Healer 47 arrived with quiet dignity, her mothlike features enhanced by a gossamer gown that complemented her delicate wings. She had adorned her fuzzy body with tiny glowing crystals that resembled stars against her pale-gray gown. Her compound eyes reflected the chandelier light in rainbow patterns, while her antennae—normally constantly moving tosense illness—were adorned with small silver bells that made gentle chiming sounds as she moved. Despite the formal setting, the multiple pockets in her elegant robes still bulged slightly with medical supplies she couldn’t bear to leave behind.
The noble representatives arrived next, and the fashion divide couldn’t have been more obvious if they’d worn team jerseys. The progressive faction, led by Lady Insertnamehere, had embraced Earth-inspired styles with enthusiasm. She wore a gown that combined traditional Iferona draping with modern structuring, topped with a delicate tiara that seemed to float above her head rather than rest on it.
Baron Figureitoutlater sported something resembling a tuxedo, though with clever alterations to accommodate his nonhuman features. By contrast, Lord Whatshisface and his cronies had gone full medieval demon court—elaborate robes with excessive ornamentation, high collars that looked both uncomfortable and pretentious, and enough jewels to sink a small yacht. They looked like they were attending a Renaissance Faire with an unlimited budget and questionable taste.
The citizen representatives entered last, looking like kids dressed up for their first prom. Clipboard88 kept tugging at his collar as if it might suddenly strangle him, while Filekeeper38 smoothed her skirt approximately every second, clearly terrified it might spontaneously combust.
“You both look great,” I assured them, greeting them personally. “And don’t worry—this dinner is supposed to be fun, not an execution. Though with some of these nobles, the jury’s still out.” Turning my attention to the guests at large, I said, “Please, everyone, find your places. The seating arrangement is intentionally mixed—I want you all to get to know each other beyond your official capacities. Think of it as demonic speed dating, except for city planning instead of romance. Though ifanyone does fall in love over discussions of sewage systems, I’ll happily officiate the wedding.”
This earned a few nervous laughs and more than a few confused looks. The traditional nobles looked particularly horrified at the seating arrangement, with Lord Whatshisface turning an interesting shade of purple when he realized he was sandwiched between Healer 47 and Clipboard88, with a direct view of Ice Sculpture Adonis and his frozen assets.
I took my seat at the head of the table, immediately aware of Azrael taking his position behind me. The first course arrived promptly—a delicate soup served in what appeared to be bowls made from some kind of iridescent shell.
As I lifted my spoon, Azrael leaned in close—unnecessarily close—to adjust my napkin. His breath tickled my ear as he whispered, “Head Chef 001 Ramsay recommends a small sip first, my lord. The flavor can be… intense.”
I caught a hint of his scent—something like cedar and night air with an undertone I couldn’t quite identify but found weirdly appealing. When he straightened, his hand brushed against my shoulder, lingering just a fraction too long to be accidental. My skin tingled at the contact like I’d stuck my finger in an electrical socket, except this was the kind of electrocution I might actually volunteer for.
“What you’re all enjoying,” I said to the table, trying to ignore the way my body was suddenly operating at the temperature of a nuclear reactor core, “is a fusion of traditional Iferona shadow broth with void spices. Basically, it’s demon soup with void seasoning—all the darkness you love, now with actual flavor.”
The reaction around the table was immediate and entertaining. Lady Insertnamehere’s eyes widened in delight. “This is remarkable! The familiar essence of shadow broth, but with complexity I’ve never experienced before!”
