Page 59 of The Dark Lord Awakens
Lord Lucien nodded grimly. “Use whatever you need. Save as many as you can.”
As Healer 47 directed her assistants to move the critical patients to the medical tents, Lord Lucien turned to Azrael, his sapphire eyes burning with an emotion Azrael hadn’t seen in him before—not anger, not sadness, but a cold, focused determination.
“This shouldn’t have happened,” he said quietly. “Nobody should have to drink raw shadow juice just to stay alive another day.”
Azrael considered his response carefully. “The strong survive in Iferona, my lord. It has always been so.” The words felt hollow even as he spoke them, a doctrine he had enforced for centuries without question. He had personally overseen the distribution of resources during the worst shortages, ensuring that those most valuable to the realm received priority. The resulting deaths had been regrettable but necessary—a culling that strengthened the herd, as it were.
“And who decides who’s strong?” Lord Lucien challenged, his gaze intensifying. “Is a kid weak because they were born in the wrong part of town? Is an old demon weak because they’ve already given fifty years of service? Is that really how we’re measuring who deserves to eat?”
Azrael had no immediate answer. Such philosophical questions had never been part of his service. His duty was to execute his lord’s will, not question the fundamental nature of demonkind’s existence. And yet, faced with Lucien’s passionate inquiry, he found himself unexpectedly… uncertain.
“I…” For perhaps the first time in centuries, Azrael was genuinely at a loss for words. The sensation was disorienting, like discovering a room in his own mind he hadn’t known existed.
Lord Lucien’s expression softened slightly. “It’s not your fault, Azrael. It’s the system. And systems can be fixed.”
Before Azrael could respond to this revolutionary statement, a commotion erupted near the forest edge of the camp. Guards were shouting, weapons raised toward the tree line. General Smashington was already charging toward the disturbance, his arms brandishing various weapons.
“Stay here, my lord,” Azrael said immediately, his protective instincts overriding all other considerations. The thought of Lucien in danger sent a wave of primal possessiveness through him. He would slaughter a thousand forest creatures, burn the entire woodland to ash, before allowing any harm to come to his master. The prospect of violence was almost welcome—a return to familiar territory after the disorienting emotional landscape of the morning.
But Lord Lucien was already moving toward the commotion, his stride purposeful. “Yeah, no. We go together.”
Azrael followed, one hand resting on the hilt of his blade, ready to eliminate any threat to his master with swift, merciless efficiency. If some forest creature had dared approach the camp, its death would be spectacular enough to remind everyone of the true nature of their dark lord’s power. Perhaps it would provide an opportunity to demonstrate the proper use of fear—a teachable moment for his lord, who seemed to have forgotten the effectiveness of terror as a tool of governance.
As they approached, Azrael saw that the guards had surrounded something small—not a dangerous predator as he had expected, but a group of tiny, cowering figures. Goblins, by the look of them, scrawny and terrified, clutching what appeared to be stolen food packages.
“What is the meaning of this?” General Smashington demanded, his massive form looming over the trembling creatures. “Thieves daring to steal from the dark lord himself? Your deaths will serve as an example to all!”
The goblins wailed in terror, pressing themselves together in a pitiful huddle. The largest of them—still barely reaching Azrael’s knee—stepped forward shakily.
“P-please,” it stammered, its oversized eyes wide with fear. “Hungry. Forest bad now. Big monsters come. Eat everything. Eat us soon.”
General Smashington raised his war axe. “Your excuses mean nothing, vermin. The penalty for stealing from?—”
“Whoa, whoa, time-out!” Lord Lucien’s voice cut through the tension. “Nobody’s executing anybody over a cup noodle, okay? Stand down, General.”
The general froze mid-swing, confusion evident in his glowing eyes. “My lord?”
Lord Lucien approached the goblins, who cowered even further, clearly expecting to be obliterated on the spot. Instead, he crouched down to their level, bringing his face closer to theirs.
Azrael tensed, every muscle coiled to spring. The proximity of those filthy creatures to his lord sent waves of protective fury through him. If a single one made a threatening move, Azrael would ensure their deaths were so spectacular it would become legend among their kind. He already had a small collection of goblin hearts preserved in his chambers—tiny, crystallized things that made pleasant paperweights. He could always use more.
“So you guys are hungry?” Lord Lucien asked simply.
The goblin leader nodded frantically. “Very hungry. Many days no food. Forest changed. Dark things come. Chase us from home.”
“Dark things?” Lord Lucien glanced toward the Howling Forest, his brow furrowing. “What kind of dark things are we talking about here?”
“Big shadows. Eat everything. Eat trees. Eat animals. Try eat us.” The goblin made a clawing gesture with its spindly hands. “Many eyes. Many teeth.”
Azrael exchanged a glance with General Smashington. This was concerning. The Howling Forest had always harbored dangerous creatures, but something that frightened even the native goblins suggested a new threat. A threat to the camp meant a threat to Lucien, and that was unacceptable.
Lord Lucien seemed to consider this information for a moment, then nodded decisively. “Look, you don’t need to steal food. We’ve got plenty. How many more of you are there?”
The goblin hesitated, then pointed back toward the forest. “Many. Many tribes. All hiding. All hungry.”
“How many is ‘many’?” Lord Lucien pressed.
The goblin’s face scrunched in concentration, clearly struggling with numbers. “More than fingers and toes. Many, many times more.”
