Page 13 of The Dark Lord Awakens
“Perhaps you would care to refresh yourself with a bath?” Azrael suggested. “The magical waters of the Obsidian Springs will help awaken your dormant abilities.”
Now that sounded useful. “A bath sounds great, actually,” I said, suddenly aware of how grimy I felt. Three hundred years of magical sleep apparently didn’t come with complimentary sponge baths. Or if it did, I didn’t want to think about who had been giving them.
Azrael bowed slightly. “Excellent. I shall prepare it immediately.”
I followed him back to the bathroom I’d discovered earlier, watching as he moved around the space. He turned the dragon-head faucets, releasing steaming water into the massive sunken tub. The water shimmered slightly, like it contained flecks of gold or starlight.
Great. Magic bath water. Just what I needed—another reminder that I was way out of my depth here. I was more familiar with the “hope the hot water doesn’t run out before you’re done” variety of bathing.
Azrael selected several crystal bottles from a nearby shelf, adding drops of various liquids to the water. The air filled with exotic scents—something like cinnamon but darker, smokier, with hints of spices I couldn’t name. Then he scattered what looked like flower petals across the surface—deep-purple blooms that seemed to pulse gently.
“Midnight orchids,” he explained, catching my curious glance. “They absorb negative energy and promote clarity of thought.”
“Handy,” I said. “Do they also come in air freshener form? Could use some clarity in my apartment bathroom back home.”
Azrael gave me a puzzled look but continued his preparations.
When the tub was full and steaming invitingly, I stood awkwardly by the edge, waiting for Azrael to leave. He didn’t. Instead, he turned to me expectantly, hands clasped behind his back.
“Um, thanks for setting this up,” I said, making a little shooing motion with my hands. “I can take it from here.”
Azrael didn’t budge. “My lord, it is my duty to attend to all your needs. Including your bath.”
I felt heat creep up my neck that had nothing to do with the steaming water. “That’s really not necessary. I’ve been bathing myself successfully for years. Decades, even. I’m practically a professional at this point.”
“It would be improper for me to neglect my duties,” Azrael insisted, his expression perfectly serious. “I have served as your personal attendant for centuries. It would be a grave dishonor to abandon my responsibilities now.”
I stared at him, mortified. Had I actually designed him this way in the game? I tried to remember what parameters I’d set when creating Azrael as my character’s butler. Loyal, efficient, deadly in combat, unwaveringly devoted… oh God. “Unwaveringly devoted” could be interpreted in so many ways, couldn’t it? The game designers had probably taken that and run with it in directions I’d never intended.
Or had I? There might have been a tiny part of me that found the whole “devoted butler” trope appealing. In a purely aesthetic, theoretical sense. Not in an “I’m standing here about to be naked in front of a supernaturally gorgeous demon” sense.
“Look, Azrael,” I began, then stopped. I was supposed to be the evil overlord here. The big boss. The head honcho. If I kept acting squeamish and awkward, he’d definitely suspect something was wrong. Time to channel my inner Lucien Noir.
I straightened my spine and lifted my chin, trying to look imperious rather than terrified. “Fine. Attend to your duties, then. I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your… purpose.”
Was that evil overlord-y enough? It sounded more passive-aggressive than commanding, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances.
Azrael’s eyes flickered with something—satisfaction? Relief? Hard to tell with Mr. Stoic—before he bowed deeply. “Thank you, my lord.” He was behind me, his long fingers untying the sash of my robe. I froze, suddenly very aware of how close he was standing. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell something like woodsmoke and exotic spices that must have been his scent.
“Um,” I said eloquently.
The robe slipped from my shoulders, caught deftly by Azrael before it could hit the floor. I stood there, naked as the day I was born (though considerably more embarrassed about it), fighting the urge to cover myself like a scandalized maiden in a period drama.
“The water awaits, my lord,” Azrael said, his voice perfectly neutral, as if he wasn’t staring at his boss’ bare ass.
I practically dove into the tub, creating a splash worthy of an Olympic cannonball competition. The water was perfect—hot but not scalding, silky against my skin. I sank down until only my head remained above the surface, letting the warmth envelop me.
“Is the temperature to your liking?” Azrael asked, kneeling beside the tub with a sponge and what appeared to be soap in his hands.
“It’s fine,” I squeaked, then cleared my throat. “I mean, it’s adequate. For now.”
Azrael nodded, dipping the sponge into the water. “If you would permit me, my lord…” He began washing my shoulderswith firm, efficient strokes. It was… not unpleasant. Actually, it felt amazing, but I wasn’t about to admit that out loud.
“So,” I said, desperately searching for a topic of conversation that wasn’t ‘why are you touching me and why don’t I hate it,’ “tell me more about these heroes who want me dead. The ones from the Groston Empire and Cizia Republic.”
Azrael’s hand paused momentarily on my shoulder, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly on the sponge. “They are unworthy of discussion during your bath, my lord. Such unpleasantness would taint the purification ritual.”
“Purification ritual? I thought this was just a bath.”
