Page 7 of The Dark Lord Awakens
Azrael’s world stopped. Shattered. Rebuilt itself around that single moment.
His heart thundered so violently he feared it might burst from his chest. Heat flooded his body, a scalding wave of euphoria that threatened to bring him to his knees. Finally. Finally. Finally. The word pulsed through him with each frantic heartbeat.
His hands trembled as they hovered over Lucien’s form, desperate to touch, to confirm this wasn’t another cruel dream. Three centuries of perfect control unraveled in seconds. His breath came in silent, shallow gasps. His vision tunneled until all he could see was Lucien’s face—those parted lips, those bewildered eyes, that perfect skin now flushed with returning life.
Mine. The thought blazed through him, primal and possessive. He’d preserved this perfection. Protected it. Waited for it. And now Lucien was awake, breathing, living—mere inches from Azrael’s trembling fingers.
He wanted to gather Lucien into his arms. Press his face into that silver hair and inhale the scent he’d been denied for centuries. Feel the warmth of living flesh against his own. Claim what he’d protected for so long.
The urge was so overwhelming that frost crystallized on the bedposts as his power leaked through his faltering control.A nearby glass cracked silently from the pressure of his unrestrained aura.
With monumental effort, Azrael forced himself back from the precipice of obsession. He couldn’t allow Lucien to see him like this—wild-eyed and desperate, more beast than butler. His master deserved perfection, not this raw, ravenous creature that lived beneath Azrael’s carefully constructed facade.
He retreated to the foot of the bed, each step physical agony, and dropped to one knee. The formal posture helped center him, though his pulse still raced beneath his skin like caged lightning. He lowered his eyes, not trusting what Lucien might see in them—devotion so intense it bordered on madness, hunger so deep it had no bottom.
“My lord,” he said, his voice miraculously steady despite the tempest raging within. “You have finally awakened. After three hundred years, Iferona once again basks in your presence.”
He kept his gaze lowered, focusing on the pattern of the carpet, counting threads to steady himself. The sound of sheets rustling as Lucien sat up sent another jolt through him—such a simple sound, yet one he’d dreamed of hearing for centuries.
“I’m sorry, what? Three hundred years? Lord? Look, I think there’s been a mistake. I’m just Beau, the guy from OpenSesame customer service who got intimately acquainted with the front of a truck. Speaking of which, shouldn’t I be in a hospital? Or, you know, dead?”
Azrael’s head snapped up before he could stop himself. Those weren’t his lord’s words. That wasn’t his lord’s manner of speaking. For a terrifying moment, he wondered if some entity had possessed Lucien’s body during his slumber—a thought that sent murderous rage coursing through his veins.
No. No. The magical signature was unmistakable. This was Lucien—his Lucien—even if something about him seemed… altered. The long sleep must have affected his memory, hismannerisms. Nothing that couldn’t be corrected with time and proper guidance.
“My lord Lucien,” he continued, struggling to keep his voice even while cataloging every minute change in his master’s appearance—the slightly different way he held his head, the unfamiliar expressions crossing his perfect features. “Your realm has suffered in your absence. The demons grow restless, the neighboring kingdoms encroach upon our borders, and the forces of light gather strength. Your loyal servants have maintained order as best we could, but only the true Dark King can restore Iferona to its former glory.”
Lord Lucien stared at him, those beautiful eyes wide with confusion. “You think I’m… Lucien Noir? As in, the King of Darkness? Ruler of Iferona? That Lucien Noir?”
“You are indeed Lucien Noir, sovereign of the Dark Realm, master of shadows, commander of demons, and rightful heir to the Obsidian Throne,” Azrael confirmed, his voice resonating with the authority of absolute certainty. Each word was a proclamation, a statement of fact that could not be questioned. Could not be denied. He would not allow it to be otherwise.
“Right.” Lord Lucien nodded, his expression unreadable. “And you are…?”
The question pierced Azrael like a blade of ice. Had Lucien forgotten him? After everything? After centuries of devotion? His chest constricted painfully, but his face revealed nothing. If his lord did not remember him, then Azrael would simply make himself unforgettable once more.
“Azrael, my lord. Your most loyal servant and steward of your realm during your long slumber.” He bowed his head again, maintaining his formal posture while his mind raced. “I have guarded your body and your throne since you fell into your enchanted sleep.”
He watched as Lord Lucien looked around the room, taking in details as if seeing them for the first time. Azrael followed his gaze, seeing the chamber through new eyes—the ornate carvings on the bedposts, the ancient tomes lining the shelves, the enchanted flames burning in the fireplace. All maintained in perfect condition for centuries, waiting for this moment.
“Where exactly am I?” Lucien asked, and Azrael’s heart twisted at the genuine confusion in his voice.
“You are in your bedchamber within the Dark Citadel, the heart of your kingdom of Iferona,” Azrael replied, still kneeling though every instinct screamed at him to move closer, to touch, to reassure himself that Lucien was truly awake. “Would you like me to summon the royal physician to examine you? Your confusion is concerning.”
“No!” Lord Lucien said quickly, the vehemence in his words surprising Azrael. “No physicians. I just… need a moment to orient myself. It’s been, uh, hundreds of years, after all.”
Relief flooded through Azrael. At least his lord seemed to be accepting his identity. The rest could be addressed with time. “Of course, my lord. The disorientation is to be expected after such a prolonged magical slumber.”
He watched as Lord Lucien stood, swaying slightly on his feet. The silk robe Azrael had dressed him in that morning flowed around his slender body like liquid shadow. Azrael’s gaze traced the line of Lucien’s throat, the curve of his wrist, the way the fabric clung to his shoulders. Every detail precious. Every movement a miracle.
A surge of pride swept through him as he noted how perfectly his master’s form had responded to his preservation spells—with the modifications he’d allowed himself. Over the centuries, he had gradually reduced Lord Lucien’s height from the imposing six feet to a more… manageable five foot seven, carefully adjusting his overall proportions to maintain a perfectaesthetic balance. His frame was now more elegant than imposing, his musculature refined rather than bulky—changes Lord Lucien would likely attribute to the effects of his centuries-long slumber, if he noticed them at all.
It pleased Azrael to have his master at a height where he could more easily attend to his needs. More easily protect him. More easily… other things, which he refused to acknowledge even in the privacy of his own thoughts. The rest of his features remained as striking as the day he had fallen into his enchanted sleep, a testament to Azrael’s diligent care.
“So let me get this straight,” Lord Lucien said, pacing the room. “I’m Lucien Noir, the Evil Overlord of Iferona, who’s been asleep for hundreds of years, and now I’m back to… what? Reclaim my throne? Fight the forces of light? Attend evil overlord conventions?”
Azrael rose gracefully to his feet, unable to remain kneeling while his master moved about the room. The urge to follow Lucien, to stay within touching distance, was nearly overwhelming. “To rule, my lord. Your enemies believed you defeated when you fell into your enchanted sleep. They will tremble at the news of your return.”
He watched as Lord Lucien examined himself in the mirror, touching his face with an expression of disbelief. “Holy crap,” his master whispered.
