Page 56 of The Dark Lord Awakens
Azrael moved forward with silent grace, closing the distance between himself and his master with measured steps. Even this—this proximity—was a privilege he had been denied for centuries. To exist in Lucien’s presence, to breathe the same air, to be near enough to catch his scent… it was intoxicating. A drug more potent than any demon brew.
“My lord,” he said, his voice modulated to perfect respectful deference despite the storm of possessiveness raging beneath his skin. “The first groups of citizens are being escorted from the city. They will arrive within the hour. Perhaps you would prefer to observe from a more… appropriate position?” He gestured toward a small pavilion that had been erected on a rise overlooking the camp—a command post befitting Lord Lucien’s station. Far from the grasping hands and unworthy eyes of the common rabble.
Lord Lucien straightened, wiping a smudge of ash from his hands. The casual disregard for his own perfection sent another wave of distress through Azrael. In the past, Lucien had been meticulous about his appearance, understanding that every aspect of his presentation reinforced his authority. Azrael had spent centuries preserving that perfection, only to watch his lord deliberately soil it with common labor.
“I can see better from down here,” Lord Lucien replied, his sapphire eyes scanning the bustling activity around them. “Besides, I want to make sure the food distribution system actually works. Last thing we need is some kind of demonic Black Friday situation when people start arriving.”
“Black… Friday, my lord?” Azrael queried, adding another peculiar phrase to his mental catalog. Each strange reference was preserved perfectly in his memory, examined like a rare specimen, another clue to the mystery of his lord’s transformation. Someday, when Lucien trusted him enough, perhaps he would explain these curious terms. Azrael would listen with perfect attention, committing every word to memory, treasuring each syllable from those perfect lips.
“Trust me, you don’t want to know. Just imagine a bunch of hangry demons fighting over the last cup noodle. Not pretty.”
“Of course, my lord.” Azrael bowed slightly, the movement precise and elegant despite the turmoil within. “Though suchdetails are typically beneath your concern. Your servants exist to handle these… mundanities.” The thought of Lord Lucien—his Lord Lucien, whose magnificence he had preserved through centuries of devoted service—concerning himself with the feeding of common rabble was… disturbing. Like watching a god stoop to clean a mortal’s hovel.
Lord Lucien gave him a peculiar look—one Azrael couldn’t quite decipher despite centuries of studying his master’s expressions. This new Lucien had expressions Azrael had never seen before, nuances he hadn’t cataloged. It was both fascinating and terrifying, like discovering a new wing in a familiar castle.
“Nothing about keeping my people fed is beneath me, Azrael. Seriously, that whole ‘too important to care’ thing is so last century.”
My people. Notmy subjects. Notmy servants. Not evenmy property. The distinction sent a ripple of unease through Azrael’s carefully constructed worldview. His lord had always viewed his subjects as possessions—tools to be used, resources to be exploited, occasionally toys to be broken when boredom set in.
This… care… was unprecedented. Intriguing. Potentially dangerous.
“As you say, my lord.” Azrael concealed his confusion behind perfect composure, a skill honed through millennia of service. If Lord Lucien wished to play benevolent ruler, then Azrael would adapt accordingly. His devotion was absolute, unwavering, eternal—regardless of which facet of his lord’s personality currently dominated. “The registration protocols have been established according to your specifications. Each family or pod will receive identification tokens that will guide them to the appropriate distribution points.”
“Great. And the medical area? Is Healer 47 set up with the nutritional supplements?” Lord Lucien asked, his eyes scanning the bustling activity around the medical tents.
“Yes, my lord. She appears… overwhelmed by the quality of the supplies you have provided. I believe she may have wept.” Azrael relayed this with undisguised distaste. Such emotional displays were unseemly, unprofessional. In the past, he would have quietly removed the moth demon from her position for such weakness, replacing her with someone possessing more appropriate composure. He had a collection of moth wings in his private chambers—delicate, iridescent things harvested from healers who had failed to maintain proper decorum in his lord’s presence.
But this new Lucien seemed to appreciate emotional displays. Another peculiarity to be studied, cataloged, understood.
Lord Lucien smiled—a genuine expression that transformed his features from merely beautiful to radiant. The sight struck Azrael like a physical blow, momentarily stealing his breath. How many centuries had he waited to see that smile again? How many nights had he spent staring at paintings that captured only a pale shadow of its brilliance? He had killed the artists afterward, of course—no one else deserved to hold the memory of that smile in their mind.
“Awesome. Those supplements need to get to the really sick ones ASAP,” Lord Lucien said, unaware of the effect his simple expression had on his servant.
A commotion near the southern edge of the camp drew their attention. A group of soldiers was struggling with one of the larger tents—a family shelter designed to house up to ten demons. Despite the pictorial instructions that had arrived with the supplies, they seemed utterly incapable of erectingthe structure properly. One side would rise only for another to collapse, causing the entire frame to twist at improbable angles.
Azrael’s fingers twitched with the desire to punish such incompetence. In the past, such failure would have resulted in immediate, exquisite consequences. He could almost hear the sweet melody of their screams, could almost taste the copper tang of their blood in the air. He had once flayed an entire squad of guards for failing to properly polish the obsidian floors before a royal procession. Their skins now lined a private chamber in his quarters, tanned and preserved as a reminder of the price of inadequacy.
But this Lucien merely sighed and said, “Oh for— They’re going to hurt themselves. Hold on.”
Before Azrael could protest the impropriety of such an action, Lord Lucien was striding toward the struggling soldiers, who froze in terror when they realized who approached. They immediately dropped to their knees, foreheads pressed to the ground, bodies trembling in anticipation of punishment. At least they remembered that much of proper protocol.
“Hey, get up, it’s fine,” Lord Lucien said, waving a hand dismissively. “Show me what you’re trying to do with this thing.”
Hesitantly, the soldiers rose, exchanging confused glances. The leader, a horned demon with scaled skin, gestured helplessly at the collapsed tent and the instructions. “My lord, we… we cannot decipher these void symbols. We have failed you.”
Lord Lucien took the instructions, examined them briefly, then handed them back. “You’re holding them upside down, for starters.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice rather than the contempt such stupidity deserved. “Here, let me show you how it works.”
And then to Azrael’s utter disbelief, the Dark Lord of Iferona, Master of the Shadow Realms and Sovereign of the Endless Night, knelt in the dirt and began assembling a tent.
Azrael stood paralyzed, a storm of conflicting emotions threatening his carefully maintained composure. This was… undignified. Inappropriate. Beneath Lord Lucien’s station. The Dark Lord did not perform manual labor. He commanded, and others obeyed. That was the natural order of things.
And yet…
There was something mesmerizing about watching Lucien work. His slender fingers moved with unexpected dexterity, manipulating the tent poles with casual grace. His brow furrowed slightly in concentration, creating a small crease that Azrael wanted to smooth away with his thumb. Or perhaps his tongue.
The soldiers watched in awe as Lord Lucien efficiently connected support poles, guided fabric over the frame, and secured guy lines to stakes. His movements were precise and practiced, as if he had performed such mundane tasks countless times before. It was… fascinating, in its way. Like watching a celestial being perform a peasant’s dance—incongruous yet somehow compelling.
“See? The poles are color-coded,” he explained, pointing to different parts of the tent. “Blue goes with blue, red with red. Super easy. Then you stake down these corners first, pull the fabric tight, and secure the rest. Try the next one yourselves.”
