Page 72 of The Dark Lord Awakens
“My lord Lucien,” he said, his voice carefully modulated to hide any trace of disrespect. “What an honor to find you personally overseeing these… innovative endeavors.”
Despite his careful words, I could practically smell the disapproval wafting off him like discount cologne. What reallycaught my attention, though, wasn’t his barely concealed stick-up-the-butt attitude, but the way his entourage of fancy-robed yes-men were practically vibrating with anxiety. Their eyes ping-ponged between their boss and Azrael like they were watching the world’s most terrifying tennis match.
“Lord Superiore,” I replied, channeling my best ‘customer service representative who’s definitely not recording this call for quality purposes.’ “I wasn’t aware the noble houses had taken an interest in camp operations. Have you come to volunteer your assistance?”
Superiore dropped to one knee so fast I half expected to hear cartilage tear. His head bowed low enough to smell the dirt. “My lord, House Superiore exists only to serve your glorious vision. We merely wished to… understand how we might best contribute to your magnificent plans.”
The nobles behind him followed suit, hitting their knees with such synchronized precision they could’ve qualified for the Olympic groveling team. Not a peep of laughter or side-eye now—just pure, unadulterated fear barely gift-wrapped in fancy manners.
“How thoughtful,” I said, letting the silence stretch like cheap gum. “And what contributions did you have in mind?”
Superiore kept his eyes downcast, probably to hide the dollar signs I suspected were flashing in them. “We have observed the distribution of these remarkable void provisions, my lord. As traditional stewards of Iferona’s resources, we naturally wondered if our expertise might be of service in… optimizing their allocation.”
I felt Azrael shift slightly beside me. Just that tiny movement—seriously, it was barely a muscle twitch—sent several of the kneeling nobles into what looked like the beginning stages of a panic attack.
“The resources are being allocated perfectly well,” I said. “They’re going to those who need them most—all citizens, not just the privileged few.”
“Of course, my lord,” Superiore agreed with the hasty enthusiasm of someone who’s just realized they’re standing on thin ice over shark-infested waters. “A most wise approach. I merely meant that the noble houses have certain… infrastructural assets that could perhaps expedite distribution.”
I studied him for a moment. Unlike his bootlicking buddies, Superiore maintained a veneer of dignity even while doing his best doormat impression. That made him more dangerous—and potentially more useful—than the others.
“You mean the private warehouses and storage facilities you’ve been hoarding resources in for centuries?” I asked with faux innocence. “The ones that are mysteriously absent from official records?”
A flash of something—fear, surprise, or possibly indigestion from swallowing his pride—crossed Superiore’s face before he carefully rearranged his features. “Our… family holdings are modest, my lord, but they are at your disposal.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd of camp residents who’d stopped to rubberneck at this premium drama. Many had abandoned whatever they were doing to watch the show, their expressions a mixture of fear and fascination. This was probably the first time they’d seen nobles kneeling in the dirt instead of making everyone else do it.
“How generous of you to offer what already belongs to the crown,” I said, letting my voice drop to freezer-burn levels. The temperature around us plummeted several degrees—not my doing, but Azrael’s barely contained murder-vibes manifesting physically.
Superiore went from pale to ghost cosplay in seconds. “My lord, I meant no?—”
“Stand,” I commanded, cutting him off mid-grovel.
The noble popped up like a demonic jack-in-the-box, his entourage following suit, all keeping their eyes lowered in the universal “please don’t notice me” pose.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I said, making sure my voice carried to the crowd of eavesdroppers who weren’t even pretending not to listen anymore. “By tomorrow morning, I want a complete inventory of all ‘family holdings’ controlled by the noble houses—every warehouse, every storage facility, every hidden vault where you stash the good stuff. Lady Shadowfax’s agents will be checking your homework, so don’t get creative with the numbers.”
Superiore swallowed hard but nodded like one of those drinking bird toys. “Of course, my lord.”
“Furthermore, those facilities are joining our distribution network. The noble houses can keep playing manager—under supervision—and I’ll even let you put your fancy family crests on the buildings. Free advertising. You’re welcome.”
The offer of recognition rather than, say, dismemberment seemed to surprise Superiore. “You are most merciful, my lord.”
“I’m practical,” I corrected. “Iferona needs all hands on deck, not a bunch of hoarders sitting on supplies while everyone else drowns. The noble houses can either grab a bucket and start bailing, or they can become anchor weight. Your call, but I’d think carefully about which option doesn’t involve sinking.”
I let my gaze sweep over the assembled nobles, noting how they trembled slightly under my attention like smartphones set to vibrate. “The old ways are changing. You can change with them and prosper, or cling to the past and… well.”
I didn’t finish the sentence. I didn’t need to. The implication hung in the air like the smell of week-old takeout.
Superiore bowed so deeply I worried he might tip over. “House Superiore lives to serve your vision, my lord. We shall deliver the inventories by dawn.”
“Excellent.” I turned slightly toward Azrael, whose crimson eyes hadn’t left Superiore for a moment. “My advisor will provide specific instructions on the format and detail required for these inventories. I suggest you listen carefully.”
Something in my tone made Superiore’s eyes widen like he’d just spotted a spider in his shower. He understood the real message: Azrael would be paying a visit later, and it would not be a social call.
“We are honored by Lord Azrael’s guidance,” Superiore managed, a bead of sweat forming on his brow despite the chill. I half expected it to freeze before it rolled down his face.
“You may observe today’s ceremony,” I said, making it clear this conversation was over. “From an appropriate distance. The front rows are reserved for camp residents.”
