Page 12 of The Dark Lord Awakens (Dark Service #1)
Lucien/Beau
I followed Azrael through the winding corridors of my castle—my actual, honest-to-goodness castle—trying not to gawk like a tourist who’d stumbled into the royal palace.
The hallways stretched on forever, tall enough to accommodate giants and wide enough for a parade of elephants.
Everything was carved from gleaming obsidian that somehow managed to be both pitch-black and sparkly at the same time, like the world’s most gothic jewelry box had exploded and formed walls.
The tapestries lining the walls depicted various scenes of conquest and battle, though most were faded and dusty enough to qualify as archaeological finds.
One showed what I assumed was me (or at least Lucien-me) standing atop a mountain of corpses, looking dramatically into the distance while lightning crackled around my perfectly coiffed hair.
Past-me apparently had a flair for the theatrical that would make professional actors jealous.
“This place is massive,” I said, before catching myself. “I mean… my domain is… impressively scaled.”
Azrael’s eyebrow twitched slightly. “Indeed, my lord. The Dark Citadel contains over two hundred chambers, seventeen towers, twelve dungeons, and the Pit of Eternal Screaming, which I had renovated into a wine cellar during your absence.”
“Good call on the wine cellar.” I nodded. “Eternal screaming probably gets old after the first century or so.”
“Quite,” Azrael agreed, with the faintest hint of what might have been humor. “The acoustics, however, proved excellent for proper wine storage.”
We passed what seemed like dozens of servants, each more demonic than the last. Some had too many limbs, others not enough.
Some floated rather than walked, while others scuttled along the ceiling like oversized spiders wearing butler uniforms. Every single one dropped whatever they were doing—sometimes literally, with an expensive-sounding crash—to press themselves against the wall and bow so deeply their foreheads practically touched the floor.
“Do they always do that?” I whispered to Azrael. “The whole forehead-to-floor thing? Seems like an injury waiting to happen.”
“They show proper deference to their sovereign,” Azrael replied. “Though in the past, many would simply flee at your approach, fearing your… unpredictable moods.”
Great. So I’d been the boss from hell. Literally.
After my destructive training session, Azrael had insisted I change into something “befitting a dark lord’s station” for meeting the generals.
Black leather pants that were surprisingly flexible, a silk shirt in deep midnight blue, and a cape that somehow managed to billow dramatically despite the lack of wind indoors.
The boots were the real winner though—comfortable enough for walking but with enough metal accents to make satisfying clicks on the stone floors.
I’d spent about fifteen minutes practicing my cape-swishing in front of the mirror before we left my chambers. Not that I’d admit that to anyone, especially Mr. Perfect Butler, who probably emerged from the womb (demon egg? shadow portal?) already knowing how to make a cape billow menacingly.
“The castle staff awaits your inspection in the Grand Hall, my lord,” Azrael informed me, his perfect posture making me instinctively straighten my own slouching shoulders. “Those who remained loyal during your… absence.”
“Those who remained?” I asked. “How many left?”
“Nearly half the original staff,” Azrael replied, his tone neutral but his eyes flashing crimson briefly. “The weak and the faithless. They fled when resources grew scarce and rumors spread that you would never return.”
Great. Employee retention issues right off the bat.
My business administration degree was finally relevant, though I doubted Professor Geller had “Managing a Demonic Workforce” in mind when she made us memorize Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.
Did demons even have needs beyond “souls to consume” and “blood to bathe in”?
“And those who stayed?”
“The most loyal. The most devoted.” A hint of pride crept into Azrael’s voice. “I ensured it.”
The way he said “ensured it” made me suspect his employee termination process involved actual termination. Of the permanent variety.
We reached a set of massive doors carved with intricate scenes of battle and conquest. They were easily twenty feet tall and looked heavy enough to crush a small car.
Two armor-clad demons stood guard, their faces hidden behind helmets shaped like snarling beasts.
When they saw us approaching, they snapped to attention so quickly I heard their armor clank.
“THE DARK LORD APPROACHES!” one bellowed, his voice echoing down the hallway with enough force to rattle the nearby suits of armor.
The doors swung open, apparently of their own accord, and I was hit with a wave of noise—a collective gasp followed by absolute silence. I stepped into the Grand Hall, trying to project confidence despite the hundreds of eyes now fixed on me.
The hall was enormous, with vaulted ceilings that disappeared into shadow and enough space to host three simultaneous basketball tournaments with room left over for concession stands.
Massive chandeliers hung from chains thick as my arm, each holding hundreds of black candles that burned with eerie blue flames.
The floor was polished obsidian inlaid with silver runes that pulsed faintly with each step I took.
Demons of all shapes and sizes lined the walls, arranged in what appeared to be departmental groups.
Some had horns, others scales; some floated slightly above the ground while others stood on too many legs.
I spotted one that seemed to be made entirely of teeth arranged in a vaguely humanoid shape and another that was just a cloud of glowing smoke wearing a bow tie.
The only thing they had in common was their expression: a mixture of awe, fear, and desperate hope.
Azrael stepped forward. “Kneel before Dark Lord Lucien, ruler of Iferona, master of shadows, sovereign of the eternal night!”
As one, the assembled staff dropped to their knees, heads bowed. The sound was like a thunderclap, hundreds of bodies hitting the stone floor simultaneously. I half expected the chandeliers to come crashing down.
“Um, rise,” I said, then cleared my throat and tried again with more authority. “RISE, my loyal subjects.”
They stood, still keeping their eyes respectfully lowered. I noticed some were trembling slightly. Whether from fear or excitement, I couldn’t tell, but neither option made me particularly comfortable.
“I am… pleased to see you all again,” I began, winging it completely. Public speaking had never been my forte—I’d nearly passed out during my college presentation on supply chain management. “Your loyalty during my absence will be remembered and rewarded.”
A murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd. Apparently, “rewards” weren’t a common part of the dark lord management style. More of a “not being tortured is its own reward” approach, I guessed.
“Lord Lucien wishes to reacquaint himself with his court,” Azrael announced. “Department heads, present yourselves.”
A massive figure stepped forward from the military section. He stood at least eight feet tall, with obsidian skin that seemed to absorb light and muscular arms, each bearing intricate battle scars.
“General Smashington, commander of your Shadow Legion, my lord,” he rumbled, dropping to one knee with a floor-shaking thud. “My forces await your command to crush your enemies and paint the battlefield with their blood.”
I tried not to react to the name. I vaguely remembered creating this character during an all-night gaming session, fueled by energy drinks and a marathon of historical war documentaries.
“Smashington” had seemed hilarious at three a.m. when my brain was functioning on the intellectual level of a sleep-deprived hamster.
“General,” I acknowledged with what I hoped was a regal nod. “Your… battle enthusiasm is noted.”
He looked up, clearly surprised by my mild response. “Would you prefer I bring you their hearts instead, my lord? Or perhaps their heads on pikes? The skull collection in the eastern tower has room for expansion.”
“Let’s table the skull discussion for now,” I said quickly. “I’d like to hear your assessment of our current military readiness.”
Smashington blinked his red eyes in confusion. “Assessment?”
“Yes. Strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, threats. The usual strategic overview.”
He straightened, seemingly on more comfortable ground.
“The Shadow Legion stands at five thousand strong, down from our peak of twenty thousand. Our elite shadow-walkers remain unmatched in stealth operations. Our weakness is primarily in siege equipment—much has fallen into disrepair. Our opportunity lies in the heroes’ overconfidence; they believe us weakened beyond recovery.
Our threat is their alliance—they have never before united against us. ”
I nodded, genuinely impressed. “Succinct and comprehensive. Thank you, General.”
Smashington looked stunned at being thanked, but before he could respond, a wispy figure glided forward.
She seemed to be made of living shadow, her form occasionally dissolving into smoke before resolidifying.
Only her eyes remained constant—piercing silver orbs that seemed to see through everything.
“Lady Shadowfax, Minister of Intelligence and Espionage, my dark sovereign,” she said, her voice like silk sliding over steel. “My network of spies extends throughout all neighboring realms. I collect secrets like others collect trinkets.”
Again, I suppressed a smile at the name. I’d been going through a major fantasy literature phase when I created her.
“And what secrets have you collected recently, Lady Shadowfax?”