Page 29 of The Dark Lord Awakens (Dark Service #1)

Lucien/Beau

I ’d expected the “war room” to be an austere chamber with a map table and maybe a dozen chairs for top military officials.

What I found instead was a cavernous hall that could comfortably host a medieval Super Bowl with enough room left over for a halftime show featuring actual dragons.

Massive chandeliers hung from chains, casting eerie blue light over hundreds of demons arranged in neat rows by department, all standing at rigid attention.

Hundreds. Not the intimate strategy session I’d envisioned, but apparently a full-blown town hall meeting with what looked like every mid-level manager in the Dark Citadel. Great. My anxiety, which had been hovering at a solid eight out of ten, cranked itself up to about twenty-seven.

“Azrael,” I whispered as we approached the raised dais at the front, my mouth suddenly drier than gas station jerky, “I thought this would just be the department heads.”

“I took the liberty of summoning their chief lieutenants as well, my lord,” he replied smoothly, as if he hadn’t just multiplied my public speaking anxiety by a factor of fifty. “For a distribution effort of this magnitude, we will need every available leader.”

Fantastic. Instead of a quick planning session with a handful of demons, I was now giving a TED Talk to the demonic middle management association. I swallowed hard, scanning the sea of horns, fangs, and glowing eyes. If this were a video game, I’d definitely be underleveled for this boss encounter.

Azrael stepped forward, raising his hands for silence—not that anyone was making noise.

The room was already so quiet you could hear a pin drop, or in this case, the nervous swish of my cape as I fidgeted.

My palms were sweating so much I could probably solve Iferona’s water shortage single-handedly.

“Behold!” Azrael’s voice boomed through the chamber with theatrical intensity that would make Broadway directors take notes. “The Dark Lord Lucien has returned to us not merely restored but transformed! While his physical form slumbered, his power grew beyond comprehension!”

Wait, what? This wasn’t the agenda we’d discussed. I was supposed to be explaining OpenSesame’s two-day shipping policy, not being introduced as some kind of slumbering demigod.

“Even now,” Azrael continued, his crimson eyes glowing brighter with each proclamation, “our sovereign has established pathways to the void realms themselves! In mere hours, he will summon forth supplies from beyond—food, water, shelter—all manifested through his immense dark power!”

The assembled demons gasped collectively, murmurs rippling through the crowd. Some exchanged wide-eyed glances, others looked skeptical, but most seemed utterly awestruck.

Oh God. They actually believed this garbage. This was rapidly spiraling from “emergency meeting” to “cult gathering,” and I was somehow the cult leader.

“The ancient prophecy speaks true!” someone shouted from the back. “The Dark Lord returns with the power to draw sustenance from the endless void!”

I made a mental note, again, to ask about this “prophecy,” right after I finished having a silent panic attack behind my carefully neutral expression.

For now, I had to roll with whatever messianic narrative Azrael was spinning.

If I revealed I was just planning to place the demonic equivalent of an online order, I’d probably end up as an appetizer at the next staff meeting.

“Behold your lord and master,” Azrael concluded with a dramatic flourish worthy of a magician revealing he’d just sawed his assistant in half, “who has transcended the boundaries of our realm to save his people!”

As one, every demon in the room dropped to their knees, heads bowed so low they nearly touched the floor. The synchronized movement created a wave effect that was both impressive and slightly terrifying, like watching a flash mob composed entirely of creatures from a horror movie.

“Hail the Dark Lord!” they chanted. “Master of the Void! Fulfiller of Prophecy!”

Oh, sweet merciful caffeine, this was getting out of hand.

I cleared my throat and stepped forward, hoping my knees wouldn’t visibly shake.

Public speaking had always been my kryptonite—public speaking to an audience of demons who thought I was some kind of prophesied messiah was so far beyond my comfort zone it might as well have been in another galaxy.

“Thank you, Azrael, for that… enthusiastic introduction,” I said, trying to project confidence I absolutely did not feel. My voice only cracked once, which I counted as a personal victory. “Please, everyone, rise.”

They stood in perfect unison, like a well-rehearsed dance troupe. If demon management had a synchronized kneeling competition, Iferona would take gold, silver, and probably invent a platinum category just for themselves.

“As Azrael mentioned, we have supplies arriving in approximately four hours,” I continued, deciding to stick to the practical matters at hand rather than address the whole “prophecy” thing.

If I could just focus on logistics, maybe I wouldn’t have to confront the fact that I was a fraud being mistaken for a supernatural savior.

“Emergency food, water, shelter, and hygiene items for the entire city. But having supplies is only half the battle—we need a distribution system that’s fair, efficient, and prevents chaos. ”

Did I know anything about distribution systems?

Absolutely not. My experience with resource allocation was limited to divvying up pizza at gaming nights and occasionally sharing fries.

But these demons were looking at me like I was about to drop the wisdom of the ages, so I had to say something that sounded competent.

I gestured to the large map table at the center of the room.

“Let’s break this down by district. We need to identify distribution points, registration processes, and security measures.

” There. That sounded official and leader-like, right?

I was basically parroting what I’d seen in disaster movies and that one documentary about hurricane relief I’d watched while procrastinating on a term paper.

To my surprise, the demons immediately organized themselves around the table, department heads at the front with their subordinates behind them.

General Smashington’s massive form dominated one side while Lady Shadowfax’s wispy shadow-form hovered at another corner, her glowing eyes the only distinct feature in her constantly shifting silhouette.

Magister Wiggles stood opposite, the swirling magic beneath his translucent skin pulsing with excitement as he created glowing markers that floated above different areas of the city map.

Wait, they were taking me seriously? Like, actually seriously?

I kept waiting for someone to laugh, to point at me and shout “Impostor!” But instead, they were nodding along like I was delivering divine wisdom instead of half-remembered concepts from a disaster management simulator game I’d played for three hours before getting bored.

Lord Taxman scuttled forward, adjusting his tiny spectacles. “My lord, I have prepared inventories of all available resources within the castle that could supplement your… void manifestations.” He said the last words with a mixture of awe and skepticism.

He’d prepared inventories? Already? When?

How? I hadn’t even known we were having this meeting until two hours ago, and this little demon accountant had already compiled resource lists?

Either I was severely underestimating demonic efficiency, or the bar for leadership had been set so low during my absence that basic competence seemed like wizardry.

“Thank you, Lord Taxman,” I replied, genuinely impressed by his initiative.

“We’ll need to integrate those with the incoming supplies.

” Look at me, using words like “integrate” as if I knew what I was doing.

If my business professors could see me now, they’d either be proud or horrified. Probably both.

Sir Formalitee stepped forward, clipboard at the ready, his long gray face serious beneath his tiny spectacles. “My lord, shall we implement Protocol 7C: Distribution of Resources During Times of Extreme Scarcity, or would you prefer Protocol 8B: Equitable Allocation of Unexpected Abundance?”

“Neither,” I replied in what was possibly the most reckless decision of my short reign. “We need something new. The situation is unprecedented.”

This caused another ripple of murmurs. Apparently, going off-protocol was radical thinking in demon bureaucracy. Sir Formalitee’s pen froze midair, his expression one of genuine distress, as if I’d just suggested we distribute food by having a paintball tournament.

“But… my lord… without a protocol, how shall we proceed? The bureaucratic framework demands?—”

“The bureaucratic framework will adapt,” I said firmly, channeling every corporate boss I’d ever resented.

“New situation, new approach.” Who was this confident person speaking through my mouth?

Certainly not the same guy who once hid in a bathroom stall for twenty minutes because a cute barista asked if he wanted room for cream.

Mistress Pokey, her bark-like skin rustling as she moved, cleared her throat.

Tiny flowers bloomed and withered in her hair as she spoke.

“My lord, if I may… the farmlands have failed us, but with proper resources, we could begin replanting within days. The question is where to house the citizens while we rebuild.”