Page 110 of The Dark Lord Awakens
“I saw him playing Enolyn in the library once,” he said suddenly. “Late night, probably two in the morning. I was dropping off some books before an early flight to a conference.”
Cole looked up, interested. “You never told me this.”
“He didn’t see me,” Wes continued. “He was completely absorbed, surrounded by energy drink cans and notes. I almost said something—it was against library policy to have food or drinks near the computers—but then I saw what he was working on.”
“Iferona,” Cole guessed.
Wes nodded. “He was designing some kind of economic system for his dark realm. Had spreadsheets open, reference books stacked beside him. I stood there watching for maybe five minutes, and he never noticed. The intensity on his face…” He trailed off, remembering. “That’s when I knew he was LucienNoir. The Dark Lord everyone on campus was talking about.”
“I found out during his first semester,” Cole admitted. “He used his username for his computer lab login by mistake. When I saw ‘LucienNoir’ on the monitor instead of ‘BMacbeth,’ I put it together immediately. The infamous Dark Lord of Iferona was my awkward freshman with the ridiculous name and brilliant mind.”
“Did you ever let on that you knew?” Wes asked.
Cole shook his head. “I thought about challenging him to a raid once, just to see his face. But it felt like invading his privacy somehow.”
“We should have,” Wes said softly. “Challenged him to a raid, I mean. Maybe if we’d connected with him outside the classroom…”
“Maybe,” Cole agreed, though his tone suggested he didn’t believe it would have changed anything. “But we didn’t.”
The unspoken regret hung between them—all the interactions they might have had, the relationship that might have developed if they hadn’t maintained the professional distance between professor and student, waiting for graduation to bridge that gap.
“I keep wondering,” Wes said as they finished their food, “what would have happened if we’d told him how we felt. If we hadn’t waited for some arbitrary graduation date.”
Cole’s expression grew thoughtful, his long fingers tracing patterns on the wooden table. “I don’t know,” he said simply, abandoning analysis for honest emotion. “But I think about it too.”
Their friendship had evolved over the years into something that defied simple categorization—deeper than friendship, not quite romance, but with an intimacy that had only grown stronger through shared grief.
“We should get going,” Cole said finally, checking his watch. “Sunset in forty minutes.”
They paid the bill and returned to the car, driving the remaining distance to the cemetery in contemplative silence. As they passed through the ornate iron gates, the setting sun bathed the grounds in golden light, lending a peaceful glow to the rows of headstones.
Wes parked near the eastern section where Beau’s grave stood beneath a young maple tree—planted by his parents on the first anniversary of his death. As they walked the familiar path, Cole reached into his messenger bag and withdrew a small package wrapped in simple brown paper.
“What’s that?” Wes asked, nodding toward the package.
“Something I’ve been working on,” Cole replied, uncharacteristically hesitant. “I wasn’t sure whether to bring it.”
Before Wes could press further, they reached Beau’s headstone—a simple marble marker that somehow seemed insufficient to commemorate the vibrant life it represented.
Beau Adonis Percival Quixote Macbeth
Beloved Son
“In one moment of courage, a lifetime of light”
Fresh flowers—lilies and blue hydrangeas—lay at the base of the headstone, still vibrant enough that they must have been placed there within the past day or two.
“His parents were here,” Cole said, kneeling to adjust one of the lilies that had fallen askew.
Wes nodded, hands in his pockets as he studied the inscription. “They never change the arrangement. Same flowers, same positions, every time.”
“I guess we all have our rituals,” Cole said quietly. “Ways of holding on.”
“So what’s in the package?” Wes asked, nodding toward the brown paper bundle Cole still held.
With uncharacteristic hesitation, Cole unwrapped the paper to reveal two small figurines—a paladin and a ranger, hand-painted with meticulous detail. The paladin stood tall and proud, golden armor gleaming, while the ranger crouched in a ready stance, bow drawn.
“You made these?” Wes asked, taking the paladin figure with careful hands.
