Page 30 of The Dark Lord Awakens
He gestured to the training floor, where more shadow constructs formed like the world’s most lethal flash mob. “Shall we continue? I believe you were experimenting with combining Shadow Step with Dark Armory before your… rest.”
The way he hesitated over explanations for my three-hundred-year absence made me wonder exactly what Azrael thought had happened to his master. Did he suspect I wasn’t the same Lucien he’d served? Or did he simply attribute the changes to whatever magical coma I’d supposedly been in? Either way, his diplomatic avoidance of the topic was Olympic-level verbal gymnastics.
“Let’s try something different,” I suggested, banishing those worries for later examination, preferably with alcohol. “You and me. Sparring match.”
Azrael’s eyebrows rose fractionally, the demon equivalent of a shocked gasp. “My lord?”
“You’re the only one who can give me a real challenge,” I pointed out. “The constructs are predictable. I need to test myself against someone who can think and adapt. You know, someone who won’t fall for the ‘look behind you’ trick three times in a row.”
A gleam of something like anticipation flashed in his eyes before his butler mask slipped back into place faster than apolitician backpedaling after a hot mic incident. “If that is your wish, my lord. Though I should note that my abilities, while considerable, are not equal to your own.”
“Then you’ll just have to get creative.” I grinned, dropping into a fighting stance. “Don’t hold back. Think of it as a performance review with swords.”
“As you command,” he replied, his formal tone belied by the predatory grace with which he drew his own practice blade. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was actually looking forward to this.
What followed was possibly the most exhilarating twenty minutes of my life—including that time I found twenty dollars in a coat I hadn’t worn in a year. Azrael might have claimed to be weaker than me, but what he lacked in raw power he made up for in skill and precision that would make a Swiss watchmaker weep with envy. He moved like liquid shadow, each strike perfectly calculated, each defense seamlessly flowing into counterattack.
My body responded with equal skill, Lucien’s combat experience guiding my movements while my brain provided helpful commentary like “Holy shit!” and “Did I just do that?” When Azrael lunged, I parried. When he feinted, I saw through it. We were perfectly matched in technique, a deadly dance of blades and shadow that was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.
“Your footwork has improved,” I taunted as I dodged a particularly elegant attack. “Been taking dance lessons while I was napping?”
“I have had three centuries to perfect my technique, my lord,” he replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Though I admit, serving as your butler has required more… dodging than dancing.”
The difference was in our power. When I channeled shadow energy into my attacks, they carried force that Azrael had towork twice as hard to counter. When I shadow-stepped behind him, he sensed it coming but couldn’t match the speed. I was stronger, faster, my reserves of magic deeper than his.
But he was cleverer. When direct confrontation failed, he changed tactics, using the environment, creating distractions, forcing me to divide my attention. It was like playing chess and fencing simultaneously while someone shouted math problems at me.
“Your strategic mind remains sharp, my lord,” he commented after I countered a particularly complex sequence of attacks. “Few could anticipate that combination.”
“I’ve always been good at pattern recognition,” I replied, shadow-stepping to avoid a low sweep of his blade that would have introduced my ankles to a world of hurt. “It’s my superpower. Well, that and the actual superpowers. And my amazing hair.”
I reformed behind him, my sword at his throat—only to find his own blade positioned at my side, a mutual kill that would have made for a very dramatic final scene in an action movie.
We froze in that position, both breathing harder than before, the contact points of our blades charged with shadow energy that crackled between us like the world’s most dangerous static electricity. This close, I could see flecks of darker red in his irises, like garnets embedded in blood. I could also smell his cologne, which was unfairly amazing—like midnight and spice and expensive things I couldn’t afford in my previous life.
“A draw?” I suggested, not moving my blade. “Or are we going to stand here until one of us gets a neck cramp? Because I should warn you, I’m very stubborn.”
“So it would appear, my lord,” he replied, his voice lower than usual, like he’d been gargling gravel in a sexy way. “Though in a real confrontation, your superior power would eventually prevail.”
There was something in his tone—respect, certainly, but also something else. Something that made the air between us feel charged with more than just shadow magic. Something that made me suddenly very aware of how close we were standing and how good he smelled and how his eyes kept dropping to my mouth when he thought I wouldn’t notice.
I lowered my sword first, stepping back with a grin that I hoped concealed whatever my face was trying to do in response to that look. “That was fun. Way better than hitting static dummies. They never look disappointed when you beat them.”
Azrael inclined his head, his perfect composure returning as he sheathed his practice blade. “Combat against thinking opponents will always provide superior training. Your skills have returned remarkably quickly, my lord.”
“It’s like riding a bike,” I said without thinking. “You never really forget how to fall off and embarrass yourself in public.”
His head tilted slightly. “A… bike?”
Shit. Did they even have bicycles in this medieval fantasy realm? For all I knew, the wheel was still cutting-edge technology here. “A metaphor,” I recovered quickly. “From the northern provinces. They’re very… metaphorical up there. Big on abstract concepts. Huge fans of similes.”
Azrael’s expression suggested he didn’t entirely believe this explanation. “Indeed. Your body remembers what your conscious mind may temporarily misplace.”
That was truer than he knew. Throughout our sparring match, fragments of Lucien’s combat knowledge had surfaced in my mind—techniques I’d never learned, opponents I’d never faced, victories I’d never won. It was like having access to a combat database that downloaded information as I needed it, except instead of “Error 404: Skill Not Found,” I got “Here’s exactly how to disembowel someone with a spoon.”
“What about combining abilities?” I asked, moving us to safer conversational ground before I accidentally mentioned cars or smartphones. “In the game—I mean, in my mind, I can see possibilities for using multiple shadow skills simultaneously. Like shadow-stepping while also making shadow constructs or setting things on fire with darkness while also looking fabulous.”
If Azrael noticed my slip, he didn’t show it. “Such combinations were indeed among your specialties, my lord. Your ability to layer shadow effects created unique tactical advantages.”
