Page 63 of The Dark Lord Awakens
“Seriously, Azrael, it’s fine,” Lord Lucien interrupted with a tired smile. “I’ve been bathing myself since I was a kid. Pretty sure I remember how it works.”
Azrael hesitated, torn between insistence and obedience. The thought of Lord Lucien bathing without proper attendance was almost physically painful—what if the water cooled too quickly? What if he required a specific oil or essence? What if he slipped and injured himself with no one there to prevent it?
What if he simply… didn’t need Azrael as much as Azrael needed him?
The thought sent a wave of something dangerously close to panic through him. He had built his entire existence around being necessary to Lucien. To be dismissed, even temporarily, even kindly, was to have the foundations of his reality shaken.
But a direct command could not be ignored, no matter how concerning its implications.
“As you wish, my lord,” Azrael conceded with a deep bow. “I shall return at dawn to attend to your morning preparations.”
Lord Lucien nodded, already moving toward the bathing chamber. “Sounds good. Night, Azrael.”
“Good night, my lord.”
Azrael backed from the room, closing the doors with precise care. He stood in the corridor for several long moments, listening intently for any sound that might indicate his lord required assistance despite his dismissal. Hearing nothing but the gentle splashing of water, he finally turned and made his way toward his own chambers.
The corridors seemed longer tonight, the shadows deeper. Azrael moved through them with silent grace, his mind replaying the day’s events in meticulous detail. So much had changed in so little time. The camp, the goblins, the nobles’ envy,the citizens’ gratitude… and Lord Lucien at the center of it all, guiding, helping, transforming.
It was not the Iferona that Azrael had served for centuries. It was becoming something new, something unexpected.
Something, perhaps, better.
The thought was almost treasonous. The previous regime had been perfect in its way—orderly, hierarchical, predictable. Azrael had understood his place within it, had executed his duties with flawless precision. This new approach introduced variables, uncertainties, complications.
And yet…
The image of Lord Lucien kneeling to accept a crude drawing from a goblin child lingered in Azrael’s mind. The genuine smile that had transformed his lord’s features. The way the citizens had looked at him—not with terror but with something approaching adoration.
Perhaps there was more than one kind of perfection.
Azrael reached his chambers—austere, immaculate rooms that reflected his precise nature. Without conscious thought, he moved to the hidden door behind his bookcase, entering his sanctuary.
Tonight, the familiar shrine held new meaning. He had visited this sacred space countless times during Lucien’s long slumber, seeking connection with his absent master. Now, with Lucien awake and transformed, each treasured item seemed to whisper of possibilities he had never dared consider.
His fingers traced the edge of the portrait frame—the centerpiece of his collection. Lucien at rest, eyes half-closed, lips curved in the hint of a smile. Not the official image of the stern dark lord, but the private face Azrael had been privileged to see in rare, unguarded moments.
He reached out, fingers hovering just above the canvas, not quite touching. “You have returned to me,” he whispered. “Different, but still mine. Always mine.”
As he prepared for rest, a new thought occurred to him—one that both disturbed and intrigued him. If fear was not the only path to loyalty, if gratitude and admiration could bind subjects to their lord more effectively than terror…
Could the same be true of love?
Azrael had loved Lord Lucien for centuries—a desperate, consuming devotion that he had kept carefully contained behind walls of perfect service. He had never dared hope for reciprocation, had never expected his feelings to be acknowledged, much less returned. The previous Lucien had been incapable of such emotion, had viewed attachment as weakness, affection as liability.
But this Lucien… this Lucien who knelt in dirt to help soldiers erect tents, who caught falling infants and returned them gently to their mothers, who shared food with servants and accepted drawings from goblin children…
This Lucien might be capable of more.
The thought was dangerous, presumptuous, potentially catastrophic. And yet, as Azrael finally allowed himself to rest, it nestled in his mind like a seed taking root in fertile soil.
A different kind of devotion. A different kind of service. A different kind of Iferona.
Perhaps even a different kind of Azrael.
He would adapt, as he always had. His devotion to Lord Lucien was absolute, unwavering, eternal—regardless of which methods his master employed to rule. If kindness was now the weapon of choice, then Azrael would learn to wield it as expertly as he wielded his blade.
For he existed to serve, in whatever manner his lord deemed appropriate. And if that service now included helping goblins and distributing food rather than executing traitors… well.
