Page 105 of The Dark Lord Awakens
“…cannot allow these changes to continue,” Lord Whatshisface was saying, voice tight with barely controlled rage. “The dark lord has been corrupted by void influences. He speaks of ‘equality’ and ‘fair distribution’ as if the natural order of dominance were meaningless!”
“The common demons grow bold,” another voice agreed—Baron Nevermind. “My servants actually questioned my orders yesterday. Questioned! As if they had the right!”
“And these… enhancements,” a third voice added—Lady Afterthought. “The void substances strengthen the lower classes disproportionately. They begin to rival our natural superiority.”
“Precisely,” Lord Whatshisface said. “Which is why we must act decisively. The shipment of construction equipment arriving tomorrow presents an opportunity. If an accident were to occur—a catastrophic one, resulting in significant casualties?—”
“The dark lord would be forced to reconsider his approach,” Baron Nevermind finished. “Especially if evidence suggested the void equipment itself was unsafe.”
“And if the accident claimed some of his favorite pets—that construction supervisor, perhaps, or the healer—his enthusiasm might wane further,” Lady Afterthought suggested.
“We must be careful to maintain deniability,” Lord Whatshisface cautioned. “We have contacts who can arrange the sabotage through intermediaries. No direct connection to us.”
“And if these measures fail to dissuade him?” Baron Nevermind asked.
A pause, pregnant with implication.
“Then more… permanent solutions may be required,” Lord Whatshisface said softly. “The realm survived his three-century absence. It would survive another.”
Azrael’s vision went red, then black, then crystalline with perfect clarity. The temperature around him plummeted so drastically that frost formed on the walls, creeping across the surface like delicate lacework. His rage was a living thing, a beast clawing at his insides, demanding blood.
They were plotting against Lucien.HisLucien. Planning to harm what belonged to him.
No one touched what was his. No one.
He flowed under the door like liquid darkness, reforming in the center of the study with deliberate slowness. Let them watch. Let them see their death approaching inch by inch, like a horror movie played at quarter speed.
“Lord Azrael!” Lord Whatshisface gasped, stumbling back against his desk like a man who’d seen his own death reflected in a mirror. “This—this is an outrage! An invasion of a noble house!”
“Correction,” Azrael said, his voice soft as a lover’s whisper. “This is an execution.”
The three nobles froze, faces draining of color faster than exsanguinated corpses.
“You misunderstand,” Lady Afterthought began, her voice trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. “We were merely discussing theoretical concerns?—”
“You were discussing treason,” Azrael interrupted, smiling pleasantly. The expression felt wrong on his face, like a mask that didn’t quite fit. “Conspiracy to commit sabotage. Plotting potential harm to my master’s favored subjects. And most egregiously”—his voice dropped to a whisper that somehow filled the room like smoke—“contemplating ‘permanent solutions’ regarding Lord Lucien.”
He removed his gloves one finger at a time, the sound of fine leather sliding against skin obscenely loud in the silent room. “I had intended merely to provide educational correctionregarding your behavior at dinner. A reminder of proper respect.” He unwrapped his instruments, letting them see each gleaming blade, each specialized needle, each tool designed specifically for the extraction of regret. “But you’ve elevated tonight’s curriculum considerably.”
Baron Nevermind lunged for the door with the desperate energy of a cornered animal. Azrael didn’t bother to move. He simply gestured, and the baron froze mid-step, only his eyes able to move, darting frantically in their sockets like trapped insects.
“Now, now,” Azrael chided, his tone the gentle admonishment of a teacher correcting an overeager student. “The lesson hasn’t even begun. It would be terribly rude to leave early.”
With another casual gesture, he locked the study door and activated a silencing ward. The magic pulsed around them, sealing them in a bubble where screams could flourish without disturbing his sleeping lord.
He removed his tailcoat, folding it with meticulous care—a surgeon preparing for a delicate operation. Rolled up his shirtsleeves with precise, methodical movements, revealing pale forearms corded with lean muscle.
“You seem to be laboring under several misconceptions,” he said, selecting a thin, curved blade from his collection. The silver caught the light, winking like a co-conspirator. “About Lord Lucien. About your position in the hierarchy. About the consequences of disloyalty.”
Lord Whatshisface’s eyes fixed on the blade, his complexion now the color of curdled milk left too long in summer heat. “We are noble houses,” he protested, voice a hoarse whisper. “Protected by ancient laws and traditions. You cannot?—”
“Another misconception,” Azrael interrupted, testing the blade’s edge with his thumb. A bead of dark blood welled up, perfect as a ruby. “I can do whatever Lord Lucien permits. Andhe has granted me considerable latitude regarding those who show disrespect.” He licked the blood from his thumb, savoring the metallic tang. “He specified only that I keep the screaming to a minimum, as he requires his beauty sleep. A most reasonable request, don’t you agree?”
Lady Afterthought began to weep silently, makeup tracking down her face like black rain. Baron Nevermind remained frozen, only his rapid breathing indicating his terror.
“Now then,” Azrael continued, approaching Lord Whatshisface with unhurried grace, a predator savoring the hunt. “Let us begin with the fundamentals. Lesson one: the proper way to address Lord Lucien.”
What followed was a masterclass in controlled violence. Azrael worked with the precision of an artist, the patience of a teacher, and the creativity of a virtuoso. The first scream came when he demonstrated the effects of a particular silver needle inserted at the junction of nerve clusters beneath Lord Whatshisface’s fingernail.
