Page 18 of The Dark Lord Awakens (Dark Service #1)
Lucien/Beau
A week had passed since my grand introduction to the demonic middle management team, and I was slowly developing what might generously be called a ‘routine,’ if routines typically involved waking up to find an unnervingly attractive demon butler standing at the foot of your bed like a model moonlighting as a Victorian ghost.
Well, standing at the foot of my bed alongside Mr. Snuggles, who had developed the stubborn habit of sleeping curled against my side despite Azrael’s repeated attempts to remove him.
The tiny dragon’s clingy nature had become apparent on the fifth morning when he’d somehow materialized in the bathroom during my bath, apparently wanting to splash around in the water too.
After the resulting chaos nearly flooded the entire chamber, Azrael now kept the door magically sealed during morning preparations, with Mr. Snuggles sulking outside it like a toddler denied their favorite swimming pool.
“Good morning, my lord,” Azrael would say every day at precisely seven a.m., his voice somehow both silky and crisp, like expensive hotel sheets. “I trust you slept well?”
The second morning, I’d screamed and nearly shadow-stepped myself through the wall. By day five, I’d graduated to a dignified yelp and only mild cardiac arrhythmia.
“Has anyone ever mentioned that watching someone sleep is generally considered creepy in most social circles?” I’d asked, clutching the sheets to my chest like a scandalized dowager.
“I do not watch you sleep, my lord,” Azrael had replied with perfect composure. “I merely arrive at the appropriate moment to begin your day.”
“So what, you just… materialize at the foot of my bed at seven a.m. sharp? Is there a butler alarm that goes off in your head?”
“Precisely six fifty-nine, my lord. I believe in being punctual.”
The bathing situation was another level of mortification entirely.
Apparently, in Iferona, privacy was a concept as foreign as indoor plumbing and nonthreatening interior design.
Every morning after breakfast, Azrael would prepare my bath—a massive obsidian tub that could comfortably fit a walrus family reunion—and then stand there expectantly, holding a towel and looking for all the world like he was waiting for me to disrobe.
“I can bathe myself,” I’d insisted on the sixth day. “Been doing it successfully for over two decades. Haven’t drowned in a bathtub yet.”
“It would be a dereliction of my duties to allow you to attend to such matters yourself, my lord,” he’d replied, his expression suggesting I’d just proposed something as absurd as a demon democracy or casual Fridays in the torture chambers.
“At least turn around!”
“As you wish, my lord.” He’d turned, but somehow still managed to assist with the washing process without directly looking at me, which was both impressive and mildly unsettling, like watching someone parallel park blindfolded.
Now I’d graduated to allowing him to wash my hair—partly because he was surprisingly good at it and partly because it was easier than arguing with someone who had centuries of stubborn butler protocol hardwired into his DNA.
Dressing was another battle entirely. Azrael had strong opinions about appropriate Dark Lord attire, which apparently required at least seventeen pieces and enough buckles to secure a space shuttle during reentry.
My attempts to dress myself resulted in what he delicately referred to as “creative interpretations of formal wear” that “might cause the nobles to question your sanity, my lord.”
After seeing his pained expression when I put a ceremonial sash on backward, I’d reluctantly surrendered to his expertise, standing with my arms out like a child as he efficiently wrapped me in enough layers of fancy fabric to survive an arctic expedition.
The rest of each day had been filled with an endless parade of meetings, briefings, and paperwork that made my previous job look like a vacation.
Lord Taxman had delivered seventeen ledgers to my chambers, each one thicker than a fantasy novel finale and about half as exciting.
General Smashington provided daily updates on the kingdom’s defenses, which mostly consisted of creative variations on “everything is terrible but we’re pretending it’s fine. ”
Lady Shadowfax materialized through my wall at random intervals to whisper ominous intelligence about the heroes’ movements, giving me minor heart attacks and a growing paranoia about the bathroom being truly private.
Magister Wiggles demonstrated magical defenses with enough enthusiasm to singe my eyebrows on two separate occasions.
Through it all, Azrael remained my constant shadow, appearing at my elbow with exactly what I needed before I realized I needed it—a document, a drink, a witty deflection when I was about to say something catastrophically modern.
He was always there, hovering just within reach, his presence both reassuring and slightly suffocating, like a security blanket made of expensive cologne and barely suppressed homicidal tendencies.
I hadn’t yet ventured beyond the castle walls, though not for lack of curiosity.
The truth was, I’d been avoiding it. The glimpses I’d caught from tower windows showed a city in decay, citizens who looked more like shadows of people than actual living beings.
Every report I read painted a grimmer picture—food shortages, crumbling infrastructure, rampant disease.
It was like reading a dystopian novel, except I was supposedly the one in charge of fixing it.
So I’d buried myself in paperwork instead, telling myself I was “gathering information” rather than “procrastinating out of sheer terror.” I’d review one more ledger, attend one more briefing, master one more shadow ability, and then I’d face the city. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow.
Until Azrael had suggested combat training, and I’d leaped at the chance to do literally anything other than read another report about the sewage situation in the eastern district.
Which was how I found myself facing off against my demon butler in a training room that looked like a gothic architect had been asked to design a CrossFit gym.
“You’re holding back, my lord,” Azrael said, circling me with all the predatory grace of a panther who’d spotted a particularly juicy gazelle with a sprained ankle.
“I’m not holding back,” I huffed, adjusting my grip on the practice sword. “I’m strategically conserving my awesomeness. It’s called pacing yourself. Look it up.”
Lady Shadowfax’s warning about the Sunstone Blade had been haunting me since our meeting.
Somewhere out there, a hero named Valorian Lightheart—could these names be any more on the nose?
—was carrying a weapon specifically designed to turn me into a demonic shish kebab.
My best defense was learning how to not get stabbed, which seemed like a reasonable life goal regardless of species or realm.
The weirdest part of this whole body-snatching adventure? Turns out Lucien’s body remembered things my brain had never learned. Like muscle memory on supernatural steroids.
The first time I’d picked up a sword, my hands had automatically adjusted into a perfect grip while my brain was still thinking, “pointy end goes in the other guy.” When Azrael had launched a surprise attack to “assess my reflexes”—read: scare the crap out of me—my body had blocked it without my conscious input, leaving both of us momentarily stunned—him because his lord had reflexes after a three-hundred-year nap, me because I’d never parried anything more dangerous than an aggressive sales pitch.
“Your muscle memory remains intact,” Azrael had noted with that subtle hint of approval that from him might as well be wild applause and a ticker tape parade. “Your physical skills have not deteriorated during your slumber.”
Which was fantastic news for me, considering my previous combat experience consisted entirely of button-mashing and the one time I’d accidentally hit myself in the face with a Wii controller.
Now, as Azrael and I circled each other on the training floor like a weird demonic version of Dancing with the Stars , I was experiencing the bizarre disconnect between my brain—which kept helpfully suggesting keyboard combinations that didn’t exist in this reality—and my body—which apparently had a PhD in Badass Combat Techniques from the University of Kicking Ass.
“Perhaps a more challenging scenario, my lord?” Azrael suggested, his tone carrying that faint hint of “I know you’re better than this” that teachers use to guilt-trip you into trying harder. “To truly reawaken your considerable skills?”
“Why not?” I shrugged with fake nonchalance. “These training dummies aren’t exactly giving me a run for my money. Unless you count that one with the wobbly head that keeps looking at me judgmentally.”
Azrael’s lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile.
He snapped his fingers, and suddenly we were surrounded by shadow constructs—training dummies that moved with purpose, each wielding a different weapon.
They weren’t alive, exactly, but animated by Azrael’s magic to simulate multiple opponents.
“Let us see how quickly your combat instincts return,” he said, stepping back to observe like a proud soccer dad at his kid’s game. “These constructs are programmed with the fighting styles of various heroes who might oppose you.”
Heroes. Right. The people actively planning to kill me with their fancy sun sword. Nothing motivating about that.
“Are any of them modeled after Valorian Lightheart?” I asked, trying to sound casual while internally panicking at the thought of facing someone who had “hero” as their actual job title.
Azrael’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The third from the left. Though I should note that Lady Shadowfax’s intelligence suggests he has improved significantly since we last updated these training models.”