Page 38 of The Dark Lord Awakens (Dark Service #1)

Azrael’s hand twitched toward the blade concealed beneath his tailcoat—a reflexive response to such a breach of protocol.

He had removed the faces of demons for lesser offenses.

The collection of preserved expressions in his private chamber included seventeen different variations of “inappropriate familiarity,” each meticulously labeled and arranged chronologically.

But his lord seemed pleased by the imp’s response, which meant Azrael could not punish it. The realization was… frustrating. Like being presented with a perfectly composed symphony and forbidden from hearing the final note.

By midday, the camp had transformed from an organized collection of tents to a functioning community.

The initial terror of the citizens had given way to cautious gratitude as they received food, water, and medical attention.

The void provisions were having their expected effect—even a single meal was visibly strengthening the weakest demons, bringing color back to gray skin and light to dimmed eyes.

Azrael watched as a group of children devoured cup noodles with the reverence usually reserved for sacred rituals. Their parents looked on with tears streaming down their faces, many tasting the “Bread of Vitality” for the first time and marveling at its soft texture.

“Hey, Azrael, have you eaten anything today?” Lord Lucien’s voice startled him from his observations.

“My lord?” Azrael blinked, confused by the question. No one had inquired after his well-being in… centuries, perhaps. The concept was so foreign that he struggled to process it.

“Food. You know, the thing that keeps you from keeling over? You’ve been running around since dawn.” Lord Lucien was holding out a cup of steaming noodles, offering it to Azrael as if he were any common servant in need of sustenance.

Azrael stared at the cup, momentarily speechless. The dark lord was serving him? The natural order of the universe seemed to be inverting itself before his eyes. This was wrong, inappropriate, a reversal of the sacred hierarchy he had maintained for centuries.

And yet… the gesture sent a wave of heat through his body that had nothing to do with hunger. To be the focus of Lord Lucien’s concern, to be seen by those sapphire eyes, to be offered sustenance from those perfect hands… it was intoxicating.

“I… do not require nourishment at this time, my lord,” he managed finally, his perfect composure threatening to crack beneath the weight of unexpected emotion.

“Everyone needs to eat, even scary demon butlers with perfect hair,” Lord Lucien pressed the cup into his hands. “Try it. The void magic stuff is pretty wild.”

Unable to refuse a direct command, Azrael accepted the cup with a slight bow.

“As you wish, my lord.” The cup was warm against his palms, the heat seeping through his gloves—gloves he had specially crafted to ensure no unworthy object ever touched his skin directly.

But this cup had been touched by Lucien.

It was, by extension, worthy of direct contact.

He removed one glove with precise movements, tucking it into his pocket before accepting the cup again with his bare hand.

The sensation was… intense. Heat and texture against skin that rarely felt anything but the finest fabrics or the handle of a blade.

He could feel the subtle imprint of Lucien’s fingers where they had held the cup moments before.

He consumed the noodles methodically, expecting nothing special despite the reactions he had observed in others. Azrael’s self-discipline was legendary; no mere food could affect him as it did lesser demons.

The first taste proved him wrong.

Warmth spread through his body like liquid fire, not burning but invigorating.

He could feel his magical reserves expanding, power coursing through pathways long established but suddenly enhanced.

His senses sharpened, colors becoming more vivid, sounds more distinct.

Even his thoughts seemed to crystallize, achieving a clarity that was both exhilarating and disorienting.

But more than the physical effects, it was the knowledge that Lucien had given this to him—had thought of him, had concerned himself with Azrael’s well-being—that sent waves of pleasure cascading through his system.

This cup, this simple offering, was more precious than all the treasures in his private collection.

“Good stuff, right?” Lord Lucien asked, watching him with that same half smile.

Azrael composed himself with effort. “It is… potent, my lord. The void energies are indeed remarkable.” An understatement so profound it bordered on dishonesty, but to express the true depth of his reaction would be inappropriate.

Lord Lucien nodded, satisfied, then turned his attention back to the camp. “We’re making decent progress. First batch of people is getting settled, and the next groups should be here soon. Healer 47 says the supplements are working even better than she expected on the really sick ones.”

Azrael followed his gaze, noting with surprise that many of the citizens who had arrived skeletal and barely conscious were now sitting upright, consuming food and water with growing strength. The transformation was happening faster than should have been possible, even with magical intervention.

“The void provisions exceed all expectations, my lord,” Azrael acknowledged.

“Your mastery of interdimensional resources is… unprecedented.” And arousing, though he kept that observation to himself.

Power had always been the most potent aphrodisiac, and watching Lucien wield it with such casual efficiency sent heat pooling low in Azrael’s abdomen.

Lord Lucien made a noncommittal sound, his attention already shifting to a new group of arrivals being escorted into the camp. These demons were in even worse condition than the first wave—many had to be carried on stretchers, their bodies wasted to the point of near-dissolution.

“Healer 47!” Lord Lucien called, striding toward the new arrivals. “These folks need help, like, yesterday!”

The moth demon fluttered forward, her four arms already reaching for medical supplies. “Yes, my lord!” Her wings vibrated with anxiety as she assessed the new patients. “These are from the lowest levels of the eastern district. They’ve been without food for… weeks, possibly months.”

Lord Lucien’s expression darkened, a flash of the old Lucien’s terrible anger briefly visible beneath the surface. “How did they even survive this long?”

“They’ve been consuming shadow essence directly, my lord,” Healer 47 explained, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It sustains basic life functions but causes severe deterioration over time. Many are beyond—” She stopped herself, antennae drooping.

“Beyond saving?” Lord Lucien finished for her, his voice soft but intense.

“With conventional methods, yes, my lord,” the healer admitted. “But these void supplements…” She gestured to the specialized nutritional formulas they had set aside for the most critical cases. “They might have a chance now.”

Lord Lucien nodded grimly. “Use whatever you need. Save as many as you can.”

As Healer 47 directed her assistants to move the critical patients to the medical tents, Lord Lucien turned to Azrael, his sapphire eyes burning with an emotion Azrael hadn’t seen in him before—not anger, not sadness, but a cold, focused determination.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” he said quietly. “Nobody should have to drink raw shadow juice just to stay alive another day.”

Azrael considered his response carefully.

“The strong survive in Iferona, my lord. It has always been so.” The words felt hollow even as he spoke them, a doctrine he had enforced for centuries without question.

He had personally overseen the distribution of resources during the worst shortages, ensuring that those most valuable to the realm received priority.

The resulting deaths had been regrettable but necessary—a culling that strengthened the herd, as it were.

“And who decides who’s strong?” Lord Lucien challenged, his gaze intensifying. “Is a kid weak because they were born in the wrong part of town? Is an old demon weak because they’ve already given fifty years of service? Is that really how we’re measuring who deserves to eat?”

Azrael had no immediate answer. Such philosophical questions had never been part of his service. His duty was to execute his lord’s will, not question the fundamental nature of demonkind’s existence. And yet, faced with Lucien’s passionate inquiry, he found himself unexpectedly… uncertain.

“I…” For perhaps the first time in centuries, Azrael was genuinely at a loss for words. The sensation was disorienting, like discovering a room in his own mind he hadn’t known existed.

Lord Lucien’s expression softened slightly. “It’s not your fault, Azrael. It’s the system. And systems can be fixed.”

Before Azrael could respond to this revolutionary statement, a commotion erupted near the forest edge of the camp. Guards were shouting, weapons raised toward the tree line. General Smashington was already charging toward the disturbance, his arms brandishing various weapons.

“Stay here, my lord,” Azrael said immediately, his protective instincts overriding all other considerations.

The thought of Lucien in danger sent a wave of primal possessiveness through him.

He would slaughter a thousand forest creatures, burn the entire woodland to ash, before allowing any harm to come to his master.

The prospect of violence was almost welcome—a return to familiar territory after the disorienting emotional landscape of the morning.

But Lord Lucien was already moving toward the commotion, his stride purposeful. “Yeah, no. We go together.”

Azrael followed, one hand resting on the hilt of his blade, ready to eliminate any threat to his master with swift, merciless efficiency.

If some forest creature had dared approach the camp, its death would be spectacular enough to remind everyone of the true nature of their dark lord’s power.

Perhaps it would provide an opportunity to demonstrate the proper use of fear—a teachable moment for his lord, who seemed to have forgotten the effectiveness of terror as a tool of governance.

As they approached, Azrael saw that the guards had surrounded something small—not a dangerous predator as he had expected, but a group of tiny, cowering figures. Goblins, by the look of them, scrawny and terrified, clutching what appeared to be stolen food packages.

“What is the meaning of this?” General Smashington demanded, his massive form looming over the trembling creatures. “Thieves daring to steal from the dark lord himself? Your deaths will serve as an example to all!”

The goblins wailed in terror, pressing themselves together in a pitiful huddle. The largest of them—still barely reaching Azrael’s knee—stepped forward shakily.

“P-please,” it stammered, its oversized eyes wide with fear. “Hungry. Forest bad now. Big monsters come. Eat everything. Eat us soon.”

General Smashington raised his war axe. “Your excuses mean nothing, vermin. The penalty for stealing from?—”

“Whoa, whoa, time-out!” Lord Lucien’s voice cut through the tension. “Nobody’s executing anybody over a cup noodle, okay? Stand down, General.”

The general froze mid-swing, confusion evident in his glowing eyes. “My lord?”

Lord Lucien approached the goblins, who cowered even further, clearly expecting to be obliterated on the spot. Instead, he crouched down to their level, bringing his face closer to theirs.

Azrael tensed, every muscle coiled to spring.

The proximity of those filthy creatures to his lord sent waves of protective fury through him.

If a single one made a threatening move, Azrael would ensure their deaths were so spectacular it would become legend among their kind.

He already had a small collection of goblin hearts preserved in his chambers—tiny, crystallized things that made pleasant paperweights. He could always use more.

“So you guys are hungry?” Lord Lucien asked simply.

The goblin leader nodded frantically. “Very hungry. Many days no food. Forest changed. Dark things come. Chase us from home.”

“Dark things?” Lord Lucien glanced toward the Howling Forest, his brow furrowing. “What kind of dark things are we talking about here?”

“Big shadows. Eat everything. Eat trees. Eat animals. Try eat us.” The goblin made a clawing gesture with its spindly hands. “Many eyes. Many teeth.”

Azrael exchanged a glance with General Smashington. This was concerning. The Howling Forest had always harbored dangerous creatures, but something that frightened even the native goblins suggested a new threat. A threat to the camp meant a threat to Lucien, and that was unacceptable.

Lord Lucien seemed to consider this information for a moment, then nodded decisively. “Look, you don’t need to steal food. We’ve got plenty. How many more of you are there?”

The goblin hesitated, then pointed back toward the forest. “Many. Many tribes. All hiding. All hungry.”

“How many is ‘many’?” Lord Lucien pressed.

The goblin’s face scrunched in concentration, clearly struggling with numbers. “More than fingers and toes. Many, many times more.”

“General,” Lord Lucien turned to Smashington, “send scouts to find these goblin tribes and bring them in. They need food and shelter too.”

General Smashington looked as if he might protest, then thought better of it. “As you command, my lord.”