Page 93 of The Dark Lord Awakens
It was… disconcerting. And oddly exhilarating. Like being the sole focus of a predator that couldn’t decide whether to devour you or worship you.
The dinner concluded with coffee and liqueurs, the conversation flowing as freely as the drinks. I mingled among the guests, engaging with each group and observing their interactions. Azrael shadowed my movements, maintaining a distance that was professionally appropriate but somehow still felt intimately close. Whenever another guest stood too near to me, he would materialize at my side, his presence causing them to unconsciously step back.
The progressive nobles were eagerly discussing fashion and commercial opportunities with the citizen representatives. Baron Figureitoutlater was showing Filekeeper38 sketches for a boutique he hoped to open, while Lady Insertnamehere was deep in conversation with Mistress Pokey about incorporating living plants into clothing designs.
Lord Whatshisface and his faction had clustered together at one end of the room, looking like they were plotting the overthrow of a particularly progressive kindergarten teacher. Their hushed conversations screeched to a halt when I approached, replaced with smiles so fake they’d make a plastic surgeon weep with envy.
“So, Lord Whatshisface,” I said, deliberately emphasizing his ridiculous placeholder name. “Enjoying the food your ancestors would have condemned as heretical?”
He straightened his already rigid spine, looking like he’d swallowed a particularly disagreeable broomstick. “The meal was… unusual, my lord. Though perhaps a bit too innovative for traditional palates.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of the point,” I replied, swirling my wine. “Innovation. Progress. All those terrifying concepts that makeold money clutch their pearls and hide behind their antiquated furniture.”
His eye twitched—just a tiny spasm, but in the world of barely contained noble rage, it was practically a temper tantrum. “Some traditions are worth preserving, my lord,” he managed, his tone walking a tightrope between disagreement and the self-preservation instinct that reminded him I could have him turned into a decorative fountain ornament with a snap of my fingers.
I gave him my best dark lord smile—the one I’d been practicing in the mirror that fell somewhere between “charming psychopath” and “your worst nightmare but make it sexy.”
“Here’s the thing about traditions, Whatshisface. The good ones survive on their own merits. The bad ones need to be propped up by people who benefit from them at everyone else’s expense.” I took a deliberately casual sip of wine. “Guess which category ‘letting the peasants drink sewer water while nobles hoard clean springs’ falls into?”
His companions shifted uncomfortably, suddenly finding the ceiling architecture fascinating. Lord Whatshisface’s face had developed an interesting purple undertone, like a bruise contemplating its life choices.
“The noble houses have maintained the realm’s stability for millennia,” he said, his voice strained with the effort of not saying what he actually thought. “Change for its own sake can be… destabilizing.”
The temperature around us plummeted so suddenly I could see my breath. Azrael hadn’t visibly moved, but he was suddenly there, his presence expanding to fill the space like a storm cloud. Lord Whatshisface and his companions took an involuntary step back, their expressions shifting from veiled contempt to the universal look of someone who just realized they’re one wrong word away from becoming an object lesson.
“Let me clarify something for you,” I said, my voice friendly in a way that made sweat break out on Whatshisface’s forehead. “I’m not asking for your approval. I’m not soliciting your opinion. I’m not forming a committee where you get a vote. I’m the Dark Lord of Iferona, and I’ve decided your traditional way of doing things is garbage wrapped in fancy packaging.”
I leaned in slightly, enjoying the way he tried not to flinch. “The only reason you’re still standing here with all your original parts is because I’m giving you the opportunity to be part of the solution instead of remaining part of the problem. Azrael thought I should just start fresh with nobles who haven’t spent centuries perfecting the art of exploitation, but I’m an optimist.”
Lord Whatshisface had gone from purple to a sickly gray, his eyes darting between me and Azrael, who was smiling in a way that suggested he was mentally measuring the noble for a coffin.
“I… we… of course, my lord,” he stammered. “We are honored to serve your vision for Iferona.”
“Fantastic!” I clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger. “Glad we had this chat. Try the chocolate fountain—it’s to die for. Not literally, of course, but with Azrael standing right here, I probably should clarify.”
As we moved away, Azrael remained unnervingly close, the back of his hand occasionally brushing against mine as we walked. “They will require… additional persuasion, my lord,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear. The words slid like silk over steel, promising something both elegant and dangerous.
“I noticed,” I replied equally quietly. “Keep an eye on them. If they move beyond grumbling to actual obstruction, feel free to get creative. Just try to keep the screaming to a minimum—the acoustics in this place are ridiculous, and I need my beauty sleep.”
“Of course, my lord.” There was a subtle satisfaction in his tone that suggested he was looking forward to whatever “persuasion” might entail. His eyes gleamed with something that sent a shiver down my spine—not entirely from fear.
The evening wrapped up with everyone except Lord Whatshisface and his cronies looking like they’d just had the time of their demonic lives. Mission accomplished—alliances strengthened, enemies identified, and not a single person disemboweled during dinner. I was calling that a win.
As the last guests cleared out, I found myself alone with Azrael in the grand dining hall, watching staff members whisk away plates with the silent efficiency of ninjas in formal wear.
“Well, that was fun,” I said, yanking at my tie like it was personally offending me. “Though I think we’ve officially identified our problem children. Lord Whatshisface and friends are going to be a pain in my perfectly sculpted dark lord ass.”
“Their resistance could impede our progress,” Azrael agreed, his eyes tracking the movement of my fingers on my tie like a cat watching a particularly fascinating string.
“Keep tabs on them,” I said, finally freeing myself from the silken noose. “I want to know who they’re meeting with, what they’re planning, and whether they’ve graduated from bitching to actual sabotage.”
“I shall attend to it personally,” Azrael promised, something dark and hungry flashing in his eyes that made me think Lord Whatshisface might want to update his will.
As I turned to leave, Azrael stepped behind me to help with my jacket. His hands slid over my shoulders, lingering way longer than the simple task required, his fingers trailing down my arms like he was memorizing the contours. When I turned to face him, we were suddenly standing close enough that I could see little flecks of darker red in his eyes, like blood droplets suspended in crystal.
“You knocked it out of the park with dinner,” I said, suddenly super aware of how little space existed between us. Every inch of my skin felt like it was on fire, my body practically humming with awareness. If sexual tension were visible, we’d be standing in the middle of a freaking lightning storm. “The whole evening was perfect. Five stars, would recommend to other accidental dark lords.”
“I live to serve you,” he replied, his voice dropping to a register so low I felt it in my chest more than heard it. “Your happiness is my only concern.”
