Page 92 of The Dark Lord Awakens
Magister Wiggles practically vibrated with excitement, the magical patterns beneath his skin swirling so fast they blurred. “The void spices appear to enhance the natural magical properties of our ingredients! I can feel my arcane reserves expanding with each spoonful!”
Even Lord Whatshisface couldn’t maintain his disdainful expression after the first taste. His spoon returned to his bowl with increasing speed, though he tried to look dignified while practically inhaling the soup. It was like watching someone trying to maintain their composure while secretly housing an entire pizza—a skill I’d perfected during college all-nighters.
“That’s something we’ve been noticing over the past month.” I nodded, watching the reactions with amusement. “Void products seem to have enhancement effects on demon physiology. Have any of you noticed changes in yourselves?”
This launched an animated discussion around the table. Mistress Pokey pushed back her sleeve to show how her bark-like skin now had a luminescent quality, with tiny flower buds sprouting along her forearms. “I find myself more connected to plant life than ever before,” she explained. “And these buds—they respond to my emotions!”
As if to demonstrate, one of the buds suddenly bloomed into a tiny, perfect flower when she smiled.
General Smashington flexed one of his arms, causing the muscles to ripple impressively. “My strength has doubled,” he rumbled. “Yesterday I lifted a boulder that would have challenged me even in my prime.”
“My magical perception has expanded into spectrums I never knew existed,” Magister Wiggles added, his voice awed. “I can see the arcane patterns in everything now—even in this soup!” He gestured excitedly at his bowl, where the liquid did seem to be swirling in strangely beautiful patterns.
Lady Shadowfax, typically the most reserved of my department heads, surprised me by actually demonstrating her enhancement. She raised one elegant hand and it dissolved into shadow, reformed as a perfect crystal replica of itself, then returned to normal. “I can shift between states at will now,” she said softly. “Solid, shadow, or elemental form.”
“So basically Void food is like demon steroids,” I summarized, reaching for my wineglass. “All the enhancement, none of the shrunken… parts.” I glanced meaningfully at the ice sculpture, earning a few shocked laughs from the more progressive guests.
As I raised my glass, Azrael materialized at my side to refill it, though it was still half-full. His fingers brushed against mine as he steadied the glass, sending an unexpected jolt up my arm. It was like someone had replaced my blood with liquid lightning and then made me touch a live wire—electrifying, alarming, and weirdly addictive all at once.
When I glanced up at him, his eyes were fixed on my lips as I took a sip, his gaze so intense it made me almost choke on the wine. The crimson of his irises had darkened to the color of old blood, pupils dilated in a way that had nothing to do with the dimmed lighting. If looks could undress people, I’d have been stark naked and probably spontaneously combusting on the spot.
I licked a drop from my lower lip without thinking, a casual gesture that I immediately regretted when Azrael’s hand tightened visibly on the wine bottle, his knuckles whitening with strain. The temperature around us dropped several degrees, though no one else seemed to notice. Great, now I was causing localized weather events with my tongue. That was definitely not covered in theSo You’re a Dark Lord Nowhandbook.
“Is the vintage not to your liking, my lord?” he asked, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear it, rough-edged in a way that sent heat pooling low in my abdomen.
“It’s perfect,” I managed, suddenly finding it difficult to form coherent thoughts with him standing so close, his scent enveloping me like an invisible embrace. My brain had apparently decided to take an unscheduled vacation, leaving behind only the basic functions needed to breathe and embarrass myself.
The second course arrived—a seafood dish featuring what the chef called “void scallops” with a delicate sauce. Azrael personally arranged my plate, leaning in so close I could feel the coolness radiating from his body. His chest nearly pressed against my back as he adjusted the placement of each element with meticulous precision, his movements deliberate and almost possessive. For a moment I wondered if the scallops really needed that much rearranging, or if this was just an elaborate excuse to hover around me like the world’s most attractive helicopter parent.
“Only I serve Lord Lucien directly,” he informed a younger demon who attempted to pour water into my glass, his voice silky but with an unmistakable edge that sent the server scurrying away. The poor kid practically teleported across the room to escape Azrael’s death glare. Note to self: demonic butlers have serious territorial issues.
As he withdrew, his breath ghosted against the nape of my neck, raising goosebumps down my spine. Our eyes met briefly, and the naked want I saw there before he carefully masked it made my heart stutter in my chest. Whatever had almost happened upstairs was clearly still very much on his mind—as it was on mine, despite my best efforts to focus on the dinner. My body had apparently decided that responding to Azrael’sproximity was now its primary function, with trivial matters like “hosting a diplomatic dinner” relegated to the back burner.
Throughout the meal, I became increasingly aware of Azrael’s constant presence behind me—the slight shift in temperature when he moved closer, the way other servants gave my chair a wide berth, the prickling sensation at the back of my neck that told me I was being watched with unwavering attention. It was like having a sixth sense that only detected hot, possibly homicidal demon butlers. Probably not a marketable superpower, but definitely an interesting party trick.
Every time I needed something, his hand was there before I could ask, our fingers brushing in contacts that sent sparks racing up my arm. At this rate, I’d either develop an immunity to his touch or spontaneously combust before dessert. Neither option seemed particularly conducive to successful diplomacy.
The third course brought a salad of local greens enhanced with void vegetables, followed by a palate-cleansing sorbet that caused Lady Insertnamehere to actually moan out loud, then look mortified at her own reaction.
“Don’t worry,” I assured her with a grin. “That’s the appropriate response to good sorbet. If it doesn’t make you make inappropriate noises, it’s not doing its job.”
By the time the main course arrived—perfectly cooked wagyu beef for those who consumed meat, and an elaborate vegetable creation for those who didn’t—the atmosphere had relaxed considerably. Even the citizen representatives were contributing to the conversation, their initial nervousness forgotten as they shared their experiences and ideas.
Clipboard88 was enthusiastically describing the new construction techniques they’d developed using void equipment. “The excavators can clear in one day what would have taken a hundred demons a week!” he explained, gesturing so excitedly he nearly knocked over his wineglass.
Azrael’s hand shot out with inhuman speed, catching the glass before it could spill. “Perhaps more focus on eating, less on excavating,” he suggested, his tone pleasant but his eyes narrowed slightly.
“Of course, Lord Azrael.” Clipboard88 gulped, shrinking in his seat.
“It’s fine,” I said quickly. “I’d rather have enthusiasm than perfect table manners any day. God knows mine are questionable at best. Just yesterday I found out I’ve been using the fish fork wrong my entire life. Apparently, it’s not for scratching hard-to-reach places on your back.”
This earned genuine laughter from around the table, easing the tension Azrael had created. Even Clipboard88 relaxed slightly, though he was noticeably more careful with his gestures afterward.
Only Lord Whatshisface and his faction remained aloof, though they couldn’t hide their appreciation for the food. I caught them exchanging glances throughout the meal, their expressions calculating. Whatever they were planning, it wasn’t alignment with the new vision for Iferona.
As the dessert course was served—an architectural marvel of chocolate and fruit that drew actual applause from the guests—Azrael leaned down to place mine in front of me. His chest pressed briefly against my back as he reached around, and I could have sworn I felt him inhale deeply, as if catching my scent. The moment was so brief I might have imagined it, but the tingle that ran down my spine was definitely real.
When I shifted in my chair, the silver threading in my suit catching the light, I felt rather than saw Azrael’s attention fix on me with laser focus. When I reached for my wineglass, his hand was there instantly, steadying it though it was in no danger of tipping. His fingers lingered against mine for a heartbeat too long, cool against my suddenly warm skin.
