Page 73 of The Dark Lord Awakens
“Thank you, my lord,” Superiore murmured, backing away with his head still bowed. The other nobles followed his example, none daring to turn their backs until they had retreated several yards, like they were expecting a predator to pounce if they showed weakness.
As the nobles retreated to the perimeter, I lowered my voice. “They seem awfully bold for people supposedly terrified of the Dark Lord.”
Azrael’s expression darkened slightly. “These particular nobles were born long after your… rest began, my lord. They know of your power only through histories and legends, not personal experience. Three centuries have dulled their ancestors’ healthy fear into mere cautious respect.”
“So they think I might be all bark and no bite?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Some may be testing boundaries to determine if you match the legends,” Azrael replied, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. “A misconception I shall be… delighted to correct.”
As they withdrew to the perimeter, I noticed Azrael watching them with an expression that promised consequences of the “this will hurt you more than it will hurt me” variety. His eyes glowed like hot coals, and the air around him seemed to warp slightly with suppressed power.
“A private discussion seems warranted,” he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear. “To ensure they fully understand the… details of their new responsibilities.”
“Just don’t damage them permanently,” I replied quietly. “They might still be useful. Think of it as training the new interns, not firing them.”
Azrael’s lips curved in a smile that contained all the warmth of a meat locker. “As you wish, my lord. I shall be… educational rather than terminal.”
The way he said “educational” sent an unexpected shiver down my spine. There was something about the careful precision of his words, the intensity in his eyes, that made me suddenly, acutely aware of his physical presence beside me. I noticed details I’d overlooked before—the elegant line of his jaw, the way his tailored uniform accentuated his broad shoulders, the subtle scent of something like winter pine and ozone that seemed to cling to him.
I turned back to the gathered crowd, trying to ignore the strange flutter in my stomach. These people were watching with wide eyes, probably mentally drafting the gossip they’d spread later. This confrontation would be all over the camp within minutes, probably embellished with each retelling until I’d grown fifty feet tall and breathed fire. I needed to redirect the energy before things got weird.
“So,” I said brightly, clapping my hands together, “I hear there’s going to be a ceremony for the new bathing facilities? Please tell me someone’s cutting a ribbon. I love a good ribbon cutting.”
The tension broke, replaced by excited murmurs and renewed activity. Sir Formalitee hurried forward, clipboard in hand as always, looking like the world’s most organized praying mantis.
“Indeed, my lord! If you would care to inspect the facilities before the dedication begins?”
The next hour passed in a whirlwind of activity. The bathing facilities were impressive—large tents divided into male and female sections, with rows of shower stalls inside. Each stall had simple controls for water temperature and pressure, with small shelves for soap and shampoo. The water came from purification units connected to the Midnight Stream, heated by what Magister Wiggles proudly described as “void-enhanced thermal exchange matrices” (which looked suspiciously like standard water heaters with fancy paint jobs).
Adjacent to the bathing tents were changing areas and distribution stations for the clothing I’d ordered. The first shipment had already arrived—thousands of sweatpants, t-shirts, and hoodies in various sizes, all bearing the OpenSesame logo. The camp staff had organized them by size and type, ready for distribution after bathing.
“The system is quite efficient, my lord,” Sir Formalitee explained, consulting his clipboard with the loving attention most people reserve for their firstborn. “Each family or pod is assigned a specific time slot to prevent overcrowding. They receive hygiene supplies and fresh garments, proceed to the bathing facilities, and then deposit their soiled clothing for proper disposal.”
“What about the water waste?” I asked, my inner environmental science professor making a surprise appearance. “We’re not just dumping it back into the stream, right?”
“Magister Wiggles has developed a filtration system that purifies the wastewater and returns it to the stream,” Sir Formalitee replied. “He was most insistent on this point, citing concerns about ‘downstream contamination cycles.’”
Apparently, Magister Wiggles had been doing some environmental science reading on the side. Who knew the guy with magic swirling under his skin would turn out to be the Captain Planet of the demon world?
Throughout the ceremony, I noticed the nobles watching from the perimeter, maintaining a respectful distance as ordered. Their posture was rigidly formal, eyes downcast whenever I looked their way, like kids caught passing notes in class. Lord Superiore stood at their center, his face a careful mask of deference.
The ceremony itself was surprisingly moving. A small goblin child presented me with a crudely fashioned pair of scissors to cut the ribbon—actually just a strip of red fabric that had been salvaged from somewhere. As I snipped it in half, a cheer went up from the crowd, followed by a surprisingly melodic song from the imp choir about the blessings of clean water.
As the first group of citizens entered the bathing facilities, I became unexpectedly emotional. Such a simple thing—showers, clean clothes—and yet it meant so much to these people. The gratitude in their eyes as they filed past me was almost uncomfortable in its intensity.
I felt Azrael’s presence at my shoulder, his tall form casting a slight shadow over me. “They worship you now,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. “Fear is effective, but this… devotion has its own power.”
I glanced at him, surprised by the calculating assessment. His expression was as composed as ever, but there was something in his eyes—an intensity, a possessive pride—that made my breath catch slightly. He wasn’t admiring my compassion; he was admiring how effectively I was binding these people to me. For a moment, we just looked at each other, and I had the strangest feeling that something important had shifted between us, though I couldn’t have said exactly what.
The moment was broken by Healer 47 approaching with reports on the latest medical improvements. As the afternoon wore on, I toured more of the camp, inspecting the expanded housing areas and the new food distribution centers. Everywhere I went, I was greeted with a mixture of awe and cautious joy, so different from the terror I’d seen on my first visit.
Later that night, after returning to the castle, I was sprawled in a chair, reviewing the agricultural texts (which were about as exciting as they sound), when Azrael materialized at my chamber door.
“The noble houses have been reminded of their obligations, my lord,” he reported, his voice as smooth as expensive whiskey. “Lord Superiore was particularly… receptive to instruction.”
“You didn’t overdo it, did you?” I asked, looking up from my thrilling reading about crop rotation. “I mean, he’s still got all his limbs and stuff, right?”
“I merely ensured they understand the consequences of disrespect or deception.” Azrael’s expression was perfectly composed, but there was a satisfied gleam in his crimson eyes that reminded me of a cat who’d just found an unattended fish tank. “Lord Superiore will deliver the promised inventories by dawn, with remarkable thoroughness. His colleagues will follow suit.”
