Page 15 of The Dark Lord Awakens (Dark Service #1)
Azrael
A zrael did not sleep.
He hadn’t truly rested since Lord Lucien’s awakening three days ago. Not that he required much sleep—a few hours every fortnight sufficed for a demon of his caliber. But even those brief periods of unconsciousness now seemed an unconscionable neglect of duty.
His lord was awake. Breathing. Living. After centuries of stillness, Lucien moved through the castle with vibrant energy, asking questions, issuing orders, learning to control his powers once more.
The miracle Azrael had waited for had finally arrived, and he would not waste a single precious moment of it in sleep.
The midnight hour found him standing on the balcony outside his private chambers, crimson eyes scanning the castle grounds.
Frost formed where his fingers touched the stone balustrade, spreading in delicate patterns that matched his restless thoughts.
The moon hung heavy and full, bathing the Dark Citadel in silver light that reminded him of Lucien’s hair spread across black silk pillows.
Everything reminded him of Lucien.
Azrael’s quarters adjoined his master’s—close enough to attend to any need, yet separated by a wall that might as well have been an ocean. Three nights now, he had stood at that connecting door, hand hovering over the handle, imagining what lay beyond. Lucien, asleep. Vulnerable. Beautiful.
He never entered. The temptation was exquisite torture, but he would not breach that boundary.
Instead, he listened. With senses honed over millennia, Azrael could detect the cadence of Lucien’s breathing through solid stone.
The steady rhythm confirmed his master slept peacefully, undisturbed by nightmares or discomfort.
Azrael had personally selected the mattress, testing dozens before finding one with the perfect balance of firmness and yield.
The pillows contained feathers from shadow phoenixes, impossibly soft and naturally cooling.
The sheets—black silk from void spiders, smoother than any fabric in the mortal realms—had been woven to his exact specifications.
Nothing but perfection would touch Lord Lucien’s skin. Nothing but the finest materials would cradle his body in slumber.
His own chambers reflected his nature—meticulously organized, elegant without ostentation, every object aligned with mathematical precision. A stark contrast to the hidden room beyond his bedroom, accessible only through a door concealed behind a bookcase.
Azrael hesitated only briefly before entering this private sanctuary. The space was small but exquisitely appointed, walls lined with glass cases containing his most treasured possessions. A museum dedicated to a single subject. A shrine to his obsession.
Lord Lucien Noir.
A strand of silver hair, preserved in crystal.
A wineglass with the impression of Lucien’s lips still visible on the rim.
A glove his master had worn once, three centuries ago, now kept under preservation spells to maintain the lingering scent of his skin.
Each item meticulously labeled with the date of acquisition and the circumstances under which it had come into his possession.
The centerpiece of the collection was a portrait—not the official one that hung in the great hall, but a more intimate rendering.
Lucien at rest, eyes half-closed, lips curved in the hint of a smile.
Azrael had commissioned it secretly during the final year before his master’s long slumber.
The artist had not survived the completion of his masterpiece.
Some treasures were too precious to share.
“Three days,” Azrael murmured, touching the frame reverently. “He has been returned to us for three days.”
The portrait offered no response, but Azrael hadn’t expected one. He turned to a small writing desk in the corner, where a leather-bound journal lay open. Taking up an elegant quill, he began to write in flowing script.
Day 3 of Lord Lucien’s Awakening
His magical control improves rapidly. Today he successfully manipulated shadow essence for seventeen minutes without dissipation. His frustration at initial failures manifests as humor rather than anger—an unexpected but not unpleasant change from his former temperament.
He requested “coffee” again this morning. I have instructed the kitchen to improve their shadow bean brew. The current iteration appears insufficient.
He continues to use unusual phrases and references. I have begun cataloging them for further study. The linguistic shifts may provide insight into the nature of his transformation during the long sleep.
Physical changes remain consistent with my modifications. He has not commented on the reduction in height or the refinement of his musculature. The enhancements to his skin luminosity have exceeded expectations—he practically glows in certain lights, particularly when pleased or excited.
He asked about the history of the eastern provinces today. I provided the official account only. He is not yet ready for certain truths.
Azrael paused, quill hovering over the page. The next observations were more personal, less appropriate for even this private record. After a moment’s hesitation, he continued.
He smiled directly at me today. Twice. The effect was… significant.
His new habit of casual physical contact remains disorienting. He touched my arm while asking about the castle’s construction. A deliberate gesture, not incidental. I maintained composure, though the temperature in the room dropped noticeably.
The bathing ritual continues to present challenges to my self-control. Tomorrow I must suggest a less transparent soap. The current formula reveals too much through the water.
He closed the journal with a snap, suddenly irritated by his own sentimentality.
This cataloging of minutiae was beneath him.
He was Lord Azrael, right hand of the Dark King, scourge of the eastern territories, executioner of traitors.
Not some moonstruck adolescent documenting each smile and casual touch.
And yet.
And yet he had waited three centuries for those smiles. For those touches. For the sound of Lucien’s voice addressing him directly rather than in remembered echoes.
The clock on the mantle chimed three. In four hours, he would wake his master with breakfast. Which meant he had exactly three hours and fifty-eight minutes to prepare everything to perfection.
Azrael left his private sanctuary, locking it with both key and spell.
The night stretched before him, filled with purpose.
Lucien’s clothing must be selected, the bath prepared, the breakfast menu finalized.
Every detail of the coming day must be anticipated and arranged for his master’s comfort and convenience.
Sleep was for lesser beings. Beings who didn’t have the privilege of serving perfection incarnate.
Dawn had barely begun to stain the eastern sky when Azrael entered the castle kitchens. The staff had learned quickly that their new schedule began well before sunrise—those who hadn’t adapted had been replaced. Efficiency required sacrifice. Usually someone else’s.
“The shadow bean brew,” Azrael announced without preamble, materializing beside Head Chef 001 Ramsay with silent grace. “Has it been modified as instructed?”
The corpulent demon nearly dropped the cleaver he was using to dismember something with too many limbs to identify. “Y-yes, Lord Azrael! We’ve adjusted the bitterness as you requested and added a hint of sweetness from void honey.”
“Show me.”
A steaming cup was hastily presented. Azrael inspected it with narrowed eyes, noting the richer color and thicker consistency. He did not drink—food and beverages were largely unnecessary for his kind—but he could evaluate quality through scent and appearance.
“Acceptable,” he pronounced after a moment’s consideration. “Prepare a full pot for Lord Lucien’s breakfast, along with the usual selection of pastries. And ensure the blood oranges are properly chilled this time. Yesterday’s offering was room temperature.”
“Of course, Lord Azrael! Right away!” Head Chef 001 Ramsay’s multiple eyes blinked in asynchronous panic as he barked orders to his underlings.
Azrael watched the flurry of activity with cold satisfaction. Fear was an excellent motivator. Love might be more powerful, but it was far more difficult to instill on short notice.
He turned his attention to the breakfast spread being assembled.
The arrangement was almost artistic—pastries in shades of midnight blue and deep purple, fruits cut with surgical precision, meats seared to perfection.
Each item had been selected for both aesthetic appeal and nutritional value.
Lord Lucien had displayed an unexpected appetite since his awakening, consuming more food in three days than he had in the final year before his slumber.
Azrael found this change oddly endearing. There was something deeply satisfying about watching his master eat, about providing sustenance and seeing it enjoyed. A primal pleasure in fulfilling such a basic need.
“The presentation is adequate,” he informed the head chef, who sagged with relief. “Have it delivered to the antechamber of Lord Lucien’s quarters at precisely seven. Not a minute earlier or later.”
“Yes, Lord Azrael!”
With breakfast arranged, Azrael moved on to his next task. The bathing chamber required preparation—a duty he reserved exclusively for himself. No other hands would touch the items that would, in turn, touch his master’s skin.
The massive obsidian tub dominated the center of the bathing chamber, its black surface gleaming in the soft light of blue-flamed lanterns. Azrael moved around it with practiced efficiency, checking the temperature controls, the water quality, the arrangement of oils and soaps on the nearby table.