Page 4 of The Dark Lord Awakens (Dark Service #1)

Azrael

T hree hundred and seventy-two years, four months, sixteen days, nine hours, and twenty-three minutes.

That was how long Azrael had been waiting. Not that he was counting. Not that every second without his master felt like a blade twisting beneath his skin.

Dawn bled across Iferona’s skyline, painting the Dark Citadel in shades of crimson that made Azrael’s mouth water. He moved through the corridors like a shadow given form, each step measured, controlled. Perfect. Always perfect.

Servants pressed themselves against the walls as he passed, terror rolling off them in delicious waves. Their fear pleased him—they should fear the right hand of the Dark King. The last servant who’d failed to show proper deference now served a more useful purpose.

The key to Lord Lucien’s chambers burned against his palm like a brand.

His most treasured possession, never entrusted to another.

The last fool who’d asked to clean these sacred rooms had learned the true meaning of “permanent position.” The candelabra’s flames still screamed when lit—a pleasant reminder during Azrael’s evening duties.

He slipped inside the chamber that housed his entire reason for existence, his purpose, his obsession.

Lucien.

The room was immaculate—he personally cleaned it twice daily, though no dust dared settle in this sanctified space.

The massive four-poster bed dominated the center, black silk canopy flowing like liquid shadow around his sleeping master’s form.

The sight sent familiar heat coursing through Azrael’s veins, devotion tangled into something dark and desperate.

Even after centuries, the mere sight of Lucien struck him like a physical blow. That perfect face, those elegant features he’d preserved with fanatical dedication. His master, his lord, his everything. But control was everything. Control was perfection.

“Good morning, my lord,” he said, voice perfectly modulated despite the storm raging beneath his skin. “The realm awaits your awakening, as always.”

No response. There never was. But Azrael continued the one-sided conversation anyway, savoring these private moments when he could speak freely to his sleeping king.

“Demon Knight Captain 002 is growing more insolent by the day.” His eyes flashed crimson at the memory, temperature dropping several degrees around him. “Yesterday, he suggested we should consider naming a new ruler.”

Azrael’s fingers twitched with remembered pleasure.

“I removed three of his fingers. He should count himself fortunate I stopped there. The urge to tear out his throat was… considerable.” A small smile curved his lips.

“I kept the fingers, of course. They make rather elegant letter openers when properly preserved. Perhaps you’d like to use one when you return to us. ”

He moved to the windows, adjusting the heavy velvet curtains with precise movements. The beam of light that cut through the darkness illuminated dust motes dancing in the air —so like the blood mist that hung suspended after a particularly enthusiastic execution. Beautiful, in its way.

“The Groston Empire has expanded their territory again.” His lip curled in disgust, revealing the edge of a fang before he smoothed his expression back to perfect neutrality.

“Their so-called heroes lead their armies. Self-righteous creatures playing at nobility while plotting to destroy everything you’ve built. ”

The thought of those heroes—those enemies—threatening what belonged to Lucien sent a wave of possessive rage through him. His nails lengthened momentarily into claws before he forced them back to human appearance.

“I look forward to the day you awaken and allow me to show them the true meaning of power,” he continued, voice dropping to a silken purr.

“I’ve composed a list of punishments. Two hundred and seventeen methods, each more exquisite than the last. Perhaps you’ll allow me to demonstrate them for your amusement. ”

The thought of Lucien watching him work—of earning one of those rare, perfect smiles—sent a pleasant shiver down Azrael’s spine. He would slaughter entire kingdoms to see that smile again. Had, in fact, during the early years of his lord’s reign.

Azrael approached the bed, his movements shifting from efficient to reverent. He drew back the silken sheets with careful precision to begin his daily care ritual.

Lord Lucien lay exactly as he had for centuries—perfect, pristine, untouched by time.

His silver-white hair spilled across the pillow like moonlight captured in silk, each strand exactly as Azrael had arranged it the previous evening.

His milk-white skin glowed with an ethereal luminescence that no human could ever possess.

His features remained as striking as the day he had fallen into his enchanted sleep—high cheekbones, straight nose, full lips that Azrael had preserved with obsessive care.

“You’ve lost no majesty in your slumber, my lord,” Azrael murmured, allowing himself this small indulgence of honesty in private. His gaze traced the curve of Lucien’s jaw, the sweep of his lashes, the perfect bow of his lips. “You remain the most beautiful being in all the realms.”

He produced a crystal vial filled with a shimmering liquid—his own creation, perfected over centuries of meticulous experimentation. The preservation spell required renewal every morning. A necessary intimacy. His only permitted indulgence.

Carefully, he tipped three drops onto his fingertips and began to trace them over his master’s face. His heart raced at the contact—pathetic, really, after all these centuries. Like a lovesick youth rather than an ancient demon.

Azrael’s touch remained clinical despite the heat unfurling in his chest. His fingers moved over Lord Lucien’s forehead, down the elegant slope of his nose, across his cheekbones. The magic resonated through his fingertips, confirming what he already knew—his master remained perfectly preserved.

His thumb hesitated a fraction of a second before brushing across Lucien’s lower lip.

So soft. So still. The urge to linger there, to press harder—Azrael pulled his hand back before temptation could take root.

He would sooner tear out his own heart than take such liberties with his unconscious master.

“The kitchen has prepared your favorite blood orchid tea,” he continued, voice steady once more as he carefully replaced the sheets. “I’ve kept your domain secure. The border defenses have been reinforced, and the scouts report no significant threats to the eastern provinces.”

As he worked, his mind drifted to the day Lord Lucien had created him. Unlike other demons’ chaotic births from pain or madness, Azrael had simply… appeared. Fully formed with an unshakeable devotion already burning in his chest like a star gone supernova.

“I have created you to be my most loyal servant,” Lord Lucien had told him upon his creation. “You are Azrael, my butler. You will be efficient, deadly, and unwaveringly loyal.”

And so he was. By design. By choice. By obsession. By a need that transcended any mortal understanding of devotion.

Azrael had served at his lord’s side for only seven years before the catastrophe.

The battle that should have cemented Lord Lucien’s dominion over all the realms had instead resulted in disaster.

The spell had backfired, and Lord Lucien had collapsed, his life force flickering like a candle in a storm.

The heroes had celebrated their victory, believing the Dark Lord would remain asleep for millennia. Fools. Azrael had spirited his master away, established the enchantment to preserve him, and begun his vigil. A vigil that had stretched from years into decades, from decades into centuries.

He had maintained the Dark Realm in his lord’s absence, ruling with an iron fist where necessary, manipulating from the shadows where possible.

Seventeen attempted coups crushed beneath his heel.

Thirty-nine traitors whose screams still echoed in the dungeon walls.

Countless throats opened for daring to suggest Lord Lucien might never return.

The memory of their deaths brought a smile to his lips. Service took many forms, and violence in his master’s name was perhaps the most satisfying. He had kept the realm intact, if not prosperous, preserving it like a gift to be presented upon his master’s awakening.

Azrael completed the preservation ritual and gently replaced the sheets, ensuring they draped perfectly over his master’s form. Next came the room itself. He produced a cloth and began to dust the already spotless surfaces, his movements precise and efficient.

“The demon brats have started another turf war in the lower city,” he continued his report, polishing a surface that already gleamed.

“I resolved it by hanging the ringleaders from the west tower for three days. They’ve been remarkably well behaved since.

The youngest one had such fascinating tear ducts—they produced crystals rather than liquid.

I’ve saved them for you in case you wish to use them in your spellwork. ”

He moved to the fireplace, adjusting the blue flames with a wave of his hand. Lord Lucien had always preferred a cooler temperature in his chambers.

“I’ve maintained your collection of books. The library continues to grow. I’ve added several volumes I believe you would find interesting, including rare tomes on governance and magical theory. I’ve bookmarked a few techniques that might prove useful when rebuilding your forces.”

As he worked, Azrael felt that familiar ache settle in his chest. The devotion had not diminished with time; if anything, it had grown stronger, more consuming, more desperate.

He had created a small shrine in his own chambers—a collection of items that represented Lord Lucien’s reign.

A ceremonial dagger. A strand of shadow essence. A quill his lord had once used.