Page 9 of The Dark Lord Awakens
The memory of Lord Lucien awakening, of their conversation, of that final moment of gratitude—he captured it all, feeding the silvery substance into the crystal until it glowed with a soft blue light. He would add this to his private collection, a treasure more valuable than all the gold in Iferona’s vaults.
Tucking the crystal away, Azrael straightened his immaculate uniform and smoothed back his hair. His lord was hungry. The thought ignited a primal satisfaction in him—here was a need he could fulfill immediately, a way to demonstrate his value, his necessity, his devotion.
The kitchen staff scattered like cockroaches when Azrael swept into their domain, his presence filling the cavernous space like a storm cloud. The scent of fear permeated the air, sweet and familiar.
“Prepare Lord Lucien’s breakfast,” he commanded, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “He has awakened.”
The head chef, a corpulent demon named Head Chef 001 Ramsay, dropped the cleaver he was holding. It embedded itself in the wooden floor, quivering like a nervous servant.
“L-Lord Lucien is awake?” Head Chef 001 Ramsay stammered, his multiple eyes blinking in asynchronous shock. “Truly?”
“Would I jest about such a matter?” Azrael’s voice was deadly soft, a tone that had preceded the deaths of countless servants over the centuries. The temperature in the kitchen dropped several degrees, frost forming on the nearest metal surfaces.
“N-no, Lord Azrael!” Head Chef 001 Ramsay bowed so low his multiple chins touched the floor. The sight was pathetic, but appropriately reverent. “What shall we prepare?”
Azrael’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. The thought of providing for Lucien, of seeing him consume the feast prepared at Azrael’s command, sent a wave of pleasure through him that bordered on inappropriate.
“His favorites, of course,” he purred. “Roasted manticore heart, still beating. Kraken ink soup with eyeball dumplings. And for the main course, the traditional Feast of Ascension—a full-grown hellhound, skinned and roasted with its head still attached so it may witness its own consumption.”
The kitchen staff stood frozen, staring at him in horror. Their fear was a delicious perfume, but their inaction was intolerable.
“Well?” Azrael snapped, a crack appearing in the stone floor beneath his feet as his control slipped momentarily. “Why are you standing there? Move!”
The kitchen erupted into frantic activity, demons scurrying in all directions like insects beneath a lifted rock. Head Chef 001 Ramsay waddled over to Azrael, wringing his many-fingeredhands in a gesture that made Azrael contemplate removing several of them as decorative souvenirs.
“Lord Azrael,” he whispered nervously, “we have no manticore heart. The last manticore in the realm was hunted to extinction eighty years ago.”
Azrael’s eyes narrowed dangerously, a crimson glow emanating from their depths. “Then find a substitute. Something equally impressive.”
“We have a hydra spleen?” Head Chef 001 Ramsay suggested hopefully.
“Fine.” The word fell like an executioner’s axe. “And the hellhound?”
“We have several in the kennels, my lord.”
“Select the largest. And ensure its vocal cords remain intact.” Azrael’s lips curved into a smile that made the chef take an involuntary step backward. “Lord Lucien enjoys the screaming.”
This was a lie but it was the sort of detail that maintained the appropriate atmosphere of dread. Fear was a necessary ingredient in proper service. The staff performed better when they believed their lives depended on it. Which, of course, they did.
As the kitchen staff rushed to prepare the grotesque feast, Azrael permitted himself a small moment of satisfaction. His lord had returned. The purpose that had driven him for centuries was finally fulfilled. Now he could truly serve, truly demonstrate his value, truly?—
The thought of being close to Lucien again, of attending to his needs, of being the focus of those sapphire eyes sent a wave of heat through Azrael that had nothing to do with duty and everything to do with something he refused to name.
He dismissed the feeling as irrelevant. Whatever it was, he would analyze it later. For now, there was work to be done. Hismaster was waiting, and Azrael would sooner tear out his own heart than keep Lucien waiting a moment longer than necessary.
The Dark King had returned, and Azrael would ensure he wanted for nothing.
3
Lucien/Beau
Istared at the ceiling of my new bedroom, trying to process the fact that I was apparently now the Evil Overlord of Darkness, or whatever my fancy title was. The canopy above me was draped in rich black silk with silver embroidery that seemed to slither and move when I wasn’t looking directly at it—like those creepy paintings where the eyes follow you around the room. Except with the added bonus of possible demonic possession.
“This is fine,” I muttered to myself. “Totally normal Tuesday. Just got hit by a truck and woke up in my video game. Happens to everyone. Probably covered by OpenSesame’s employee health plan under ‘interdimensional workplace accidents.’”
While waiting for Azrael—my personal demon butler who was definitely giving off “too hot to be just a servant” vibes with his crimson eyes and perfect jawline—to return with breakfast, I decided to take stock of my situation. I padded over to the window and yanked back the heavy velvet curtains. The view hit me like a double espresso to the eyeballs.
Spread out below me was Iferona—my domain, my creation, my digital kingdom turned terrifyingly real. I was clearly in one of the highest towers of the Dark Citadel, giving me a perfectvantage point of the sprawling city below. From this eagle’s eye view, I could see how the other obsidian towers of the citadel rose around me, creating the imposing silhouette I’d designed to intimidate my enemies. Beyond the city walls stretched farmlands bathed in permanent dusk, then marshlands, and finally the barren wasteland that served as a natural border.
