Page 28 of The Dark Lord Awakens
Lady Shadowfax materialized through my wall at random intervals to whisper ominous intelligence about the heroes’ movements, giving me minor heart attacks and a growing paranoia about the bathroom being truly private. Magister Wiggles demonstrated magical defenses with enough enthusiasm to singe my eyebrows on two separate occasions.
Through it all, Azrael remained my constant shadow, appearing at my elbow with exactly what I needed before I realized I needed it—a document, a drink, a witty deflection when I was about to say something catastrophically modern. He was always there, hovering just within reach, his presenceboth reassuring and slightly suffocating, like a security blanket made of expensive cologne and barely suppressed homicidal tendencies.
I hadn’t yet ventured beyond the castle walls, though not for lack of curiosity. The truth was, I’d been avoiding it. The glimpses I’d caught from tower windows showed a city in decay, citizens who looked more like shadows of people than actual living beings. Every report I read painted a grimmer picture—food shortages, crumbling infrastructure, rampant disease. It was like reading a dystopian novel, except I was supposedly the one in charge of fixing it.
So I’d buried myself in paperwork instead, telling myself I was “gathering information” rather than “procrastinating out of sheer terror.” I’d review one more ledger, attend one more briefing, master one more shadow ability, and then I’d face the city. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow.
Until Azrael had suggested combat training, and I’d leaped at the chance to do literally anything other than read another report about the sewage situation in the eastern district.
Which was how I found myself facing off against my demon butler in a training room that looked like a gothic architect had been asked to design a CrossFit gym.
“You’re holding back, my lord,” Azrael said, circling me with all the predatory grace of a panther who’d spotted a particularly juicy gazelle with a sprained ankle.
“I’m not holding back,” I huffed, adjusting my grip on the practice sword. “I’m strategically conserving my awesomeness. It’s called pacing yourself. Look it up.”
Lady Shadowfax’s warning about the Sunstone Blade had been haunting me since our meeting. Somewhere out there, a hero named Valorian Lightheart—could these names be any more on the nose?—was carrying a weapon specifically designed to turn me into a demonic shish kebab. My best defense waslearning how to not get stabbed, which seemed like a reasonable life goal regardless of species or realm.
The weirdest part of this whole body-snatching adventure? Turns out Lucien’s body remembered things my brain had never learned. Like muscle memory on supernatural steroids.
The first time I’d picked up a sword, my hands had automatically adjusted into a perfect grip while my brain was still thinking, “pointy end goes in the other guy.” When Azrael had launched a surprise attack to “assess my reflexes”—read: scare the crap out of me—my body had blocked it without my conscious input, leaving both of us momentarily stunned—him because his lord had reflexes after a three-hundred-year nap, me because I’d never parried anything more dangerous than an aggressive sales pitch.
“Your muscle memory remains intact,” Azrael had noted with that subtle hint of approval that from him might as well be wild applause and a ticker tape parade. “Your physical skills have not deteriorated during your slumber.”
Which was fantastic news for me, considering my previous combat experience consisted entirely of button-mashing and the one time I’d accidentally hit myself in the face with a Wii controller.
Now, as Azrael and I circled each other on the training floor like a weird demonic version ofDancing with the Stars, I was experiencing the bizarre disconnect between my brain—which kept helpfully suggesting keyboard combinations that didn’t exist in this reality—and my body—which apparently had a PhD in Badass Combat Techniques from the University of Kicking Ass.
“Perhaps a more challenging scenario, my lord?” Azrael suggested, his tone carrying that faint hint of “I know you’re better than this” that teachers use to guilt-trip you into trying harder. “To truly reawaken your considerable skills?”
“Why not?” I shrugged with fake nonchalance. “These training dummies aren’t exactly giving me a run for my money. Unless you count that one with the wobbly head that keeps looking at me judgmentally.”
Azrael’s lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. He snapped his fingers, and suddenly we were surrounded by shadow constructs—training dummies that moved with purpose, each wielding a different weapon. They weren’t alive, exactly, but animated by Azrael’s magic to simulate multiple opponents.
“Let us see how quickly your combat instincts return,” he said, stepping back to observe like a proud soccer dad at his kid’s game. “These constructs are programmed with the fighting styles of various heroes who might oppose you.”
Heroes. Right. The people actively planning to kill me with their fancy sun sword. Nothing motivating about that.
“Are any of them modeled after Valorian Lightheart?” I asked, trying to sound casual while internally panicking at the thought of facing someone who had “hero” as their actual job title.
Azrael’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The third from the left. Though I should note that Lady Shadowfax’s intelligence suggests he has improved significantly since we last updated these training models.”
“So this is basically the tutorial version of the guy who wants to stab me. Fantastic.”
The first construct lunged at me, and something extraordinary happened. As it attacked, images flashed through my mind—not my memories of dying in a call center while fantasizing about tacos, but Lucien’s. I suddenly knew this training exercise, had performed it hundreds of times over centuries. My body remembered the optimal response pattern, the most efficient way to dispatch these particular constructs.
At the same time, I recognized the scenario from the game—a mid-level training quest called “The Circle of Shadows” that I’d run countless times to farm XP when I should have been studying for finals. My fingers twitched, muscle memory from years of gaming trying to press buttons that didn’t exist in this reality.
“Right trigger, X, X, left bumper, special move,” my brain helpfully suggested as my body executed a perfect counterattack that would have made the game developers weep with joy.
“Combo breaker!” I shouted as I dispatched the first construct, then immediately winced at the gaming reference.
Azrael’s brow furrowed. “Combo… breaker? Is that a new battle cry, my lord?”
“Ancient battle cry,” I improvised wildly. “From the, uh, northern demon clans. Very traditional. They yell it when breaking an enemy’s attack sequence. Fearsome warriors, those northern demons. Big fans of shouting nonsense in combat.”
“I see,” Azrael replied in a tone that suggested he absolutely did not see but was too polite to call his lord a terrible liar to his face. “Your knowledge of obscure battle traditions is… impressive.”
The result was like having a professional driver take the wheel while backseat me kept shouting unnecessary directions. My body moved with Lucien’s practiced skill while my mind processed the familiar patterns from hours of gameplay.
