Page 62 of The Dark Lord Awakens
Mr. Snuggles lowered his massive head as they approached, allowing Lord Lucien to climb onto his back with practiced ease. Azrael followed, positioning himself behind his lord as the dragon prepared for flight. The proximity sent electricity through his veins—this delicious closeness that both satisfied and tormented him.
Every shared flight was a dangerous indulgence. The physical contact he permitted himself—arms around Lucien’s waist, chest pressed against his back—walked the knife’s edge between dutyand desire. Each touch fed the hunger while making it more ravenous. Each moment of controlled intimacy threatened to shatter his carefully maintained restraint.
These small liberties were both blessing and curse—momentary relief that ultimately deepened his craving for more. More touch. More possession. More of what he had no right to take. The warmth of Lucien’s body against his own was both heaven and hell—a taste of what he desperately wanted and could never truly have.
“A most productive day, my lord,” Azrael observed as they rose into the night air, the camp spreading out below them like a constellation of earthbound stars. “The relief effort has exceeded all expectations.”
“It’s a start,” Lord Lucien replied, his gaze lingering on the scene below. “But we’ve got a lot more to do. The camp is temporary—we need to rebuild the city, fix the food production issues, figure out what’s going on in the forest…” He yawned again. “But first, sleep. I’m absolutely wiped.”
As they flew toward the Dark Citadel, Azrael found himself viewing his lord with new eyes. This Lucien was different, yes—more compassionate, more hands on, more concerned with the welfare of his subjects. But he was also, in his own way, more powerful. He had accomplished more in a single day than the previous Lucien had in decades of rule through terror.
For centuries, Azrael had maintained order through fear, believing it the only reliable method of control. Yet in a single day, Lord Lucien had achieved more with kindness than the previous regime had with decades of terror.
It was… educational.
Perhaps there was more than one way to ensure devotion. Perhaps the genuine gratitude of the masses could be as powerful as their fear. Perhaps Lord Lucien’s evolution during his slumber had indeed made him more formidable, not less.
The Dark Citadel loomed before them, its obsidian towers gleaming in the moonlight. As Mr. Snuggles descended toward the eastern balcony, Azrael noted how empty the castle seemed compared to the bustling life of the camp. With over ninety percent of the city’s population relocated to the Ashen Fields, Iferona itself had become a ghost town, its streets deserted, its districts silent.
Only the western quarter showed signs of life—the nobles and merchants who had remained in their comfortable mansions, lights glowing in windows as they no doubt discussed the day’s unprecedented events. Azrael could imagine their conversations, their confusion, their calculations as they tried to determine how this new approach from their dark lord would affect their positions and privileges.
They would adapt or they would perish. Such was the way of Iferona, regardless of which methods Lord Lucien employed to rule.
Mr. Snuggles landed with surprising gentleness, folding his wings as Lord Lucien slid from his back. Azrael followed, immediately resuming his position slightly behind and to the right of his master—close enough to protect, far enough to show proper deference.
“You must be exhausted, my lord,” Azrael said as they entered the castle. “I shall have a bath prepared immediately.” The thought of the bathing ritual sent a pleasant heat through his veins. To serve his lord in that intimate setting, to tend to his needs with his own hands, to be permitted to touch that perfect skin under the guise of duty—it was a privilege he cherished above all others.
Lord Lucien nodded, stifling another yawn. “That sounds amazing. And food—something light. I’m too tired to deal with a full meal.”
“Of course, my lord. Perhaps some of the void bread and a selection of preserved meats?” Azrael was already mentally composing the perfect meal—light enough for a tired appetite, but substantial enough to restore his lord’s energy. Each element would be arranged with artistic precision, a feast for the eyes as well as the palate.
“Perfect.” Lord Lucien paused, turning to face Azrael directly. “You did good work today, Azrael. I know all this”—he gestured vaguely—“isn’t exactly what you’re used to. Thanks for rolling with it.”
The praise, unexpected and unearned, sent that peculiar warmth through Azrael’s chest again. A warmth that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with… something else. He inclined his head slightly. “I exist to serve, my lord. In whatever manner you deem appropriate.”
“Yeah, but still. I appreciate it.” Lord Lucien smiled—that genuine expression that transformed his features from merely beautiful to radiant. “Not everyone adapts to change so well.”
They continued through the silent corridors of the Dark Citadel, their footsteps echoing in the emptiness. Most of the servants had either been deployed to the camp or were resting in preparation for the next day’s efforts. The castle felt hollow, abandoned—a relic of a regime that was rapidly evolving into something new.
As they reached Lord Lucien’s chambers, Azrael moved ahead to open the doors, then proceeded to the bathing chamber to prepare the promised bath. He added the precise mixture of oils and essences that he knew his lord preferred, heating the water to the exact temperature that would provide optimal relaxation without inducing premature drowsiness.
His movements were practiced, efficient, perfect—as always. But his mind was elsewhere, still processing the day’s revelations. The sight of Lucien kneeling to help a commonsoldier. The sound of children laughing in his presence rather than cowering. The way the citizens had looked at him—not with terror but with something approaching adoration.
When he returned to the main chamber, he found Lord Lucien standing at the window, gazing out toward the distant glow of the camp. The dark lord’s expression was contemplative, almost wistful.
“Is something troubling you, my lord?” Azrael inquired, arranging the requested light meal on a small table near the fireplace. Each piece of food was positioned with artistic precision, a small masterpiece of culinary presentation. Only the finest for his lord.
Lord Lucien shook his head slightly. “Not troubled. Just thinking. About how things could have been different if…” He trailed off, then shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. We’re fixing it now.”
Azrael considered pressing for clarification but decided against it. Lord Lucien would share his thoughts when and if he chose to do so. It was not a servant’s place to pry, no matter how devoted. Though privately, Azrael cataloged every word, every gesture, every expression—precious additions to his collection of observations about his lord.
“Your bath is prepared, my lord,” he said instead. “And a light repast awaits your pleasure afterward.”
“Thanks, Azrael.” Lord Lucien turned from the window, his fatigue evident in the slight slump of his shoulders. “I think I can handle bathing myself tonight. You should get some rest too.”
Azrael blinked, momentarily taken aback. In all his centuries of service, he had never been dismissed from his evening duties. Attending to Lord Lucien’s bathing was not merely a task but a privilege—one he had guarded jealously against any who might seek to usurp it. The thought of being denied this intimacy sent a cold spike of distress through his perfect composure.
“My lord, I assure you I am not fatigued,” he protested mildly. “It would be my honor to?—”
