Page 70 of The Dark Lord Awakens (Dark Service #1)

Azrael

A zrael arranged the silver instruments on the velvet cloth, fingertips lingering on each polished blade like a lover’s caress.

Moonlight transformed them from tools to talismans—beautiful and deadly, like everything he touched.

He’d spent centuries perfecting each one, testing them on subjects who’d forgotten their place, refining them until they could extract symphonies of agony with surgical precision.

Lord Whatshisface’s voice from dinner still grated against his nerves like sandpaper on raw skin. The way he’d looked at Lucien—as if kindness equaled weakness, as if this luminous version of his master deserved less reverence than the cruel one.

During Lord Lucien’s centuries of slumber, Azrael had maintained order through calculated demonstrations of power, but he had allowed the noble houses their petty games and accumulation of resources, so long as they maintained the appearance of loyalty.

Three centuries. Three centuries in which new generations of nobles had been born, had grown to adulthood, had sired children of their own—all without ever witnessing the true extent of Lord Lucien’s power or wrath.

They knew the stories, of course, the carefully preserved accounts of what happened to those who had once defied the Dark Lord.

But stories were not the same as memory.

Tales passed down lost their edge, became distorted, exaggerated in ways that made them seem more like myths than warnings.

These young lords—Lord Whatshisface, Lord Superiore, and their ilk—they had never seen Lord Lucien reduce a man to ashes with a gesture.

They had never watched him extract a still-beating heart and consume it before its owner’s dying eyes.

They had never felt the suffocating pressure of his full power unleashed.

They knew only Azrael’s occasional demonstrations, which he had carefully calibrated to maintain order without destabilizing the realm’s fragile power structure during his master’s absence. Perhaps he had been too restrained. Too… merciful.

A mistake he would now rectify.

The memory made something dark and possessive twist inside Azrael’s chest. A feeling that had always existed but had been growing stronger, more demanding, more dangerous with each passing day since Lucien’s awakening.

Two hours since dinner had concluded. Long enough for the nobles to return to their estates, to lock their doors and believe themselves safe. Long enough for his precious Lucien to retire, to slide between silk sheets still warm from Azrael’s touch.

The image hit him like a physical blow—Lucien emerging from his bath, silver-white hair darkened with moisture clinging to that alabaster neck, skin flushed pink and glistening with droplets Azrael longed to trace with his tongue, those impossibly blue eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion.

His body responded instantly, a familiar heat pooling low in his abdomen, more intense than ever before.

Tonight, when Lucien had mentioned needing "more comfortable" sleeping attire due to the heat—those slender fingers tugging at his collar, exposing the pale column of his throat—Azrael had felt something snap inside him.

Like a dam breaking, like chains shattering.

The primal, possessive need he had always suppressed now surged forward with an intensity he could no longer contain.

Not for the first time, but stronger than ever before. Beyond his ability to deny or control.

He wrapped the cloth around his instruments with quick, efficient movements. Lord Whatshisface required correction. Education. A reminder of his place in the hierarchy.

And Azrael needed the distraction. Needed something to focus on besides the increasingly vivid images playing through his mind—images that had haunted him for centuries but now refused to be banished to the shadows of his consciousness.

Lucien beneath him, silver hair spread across black silk, blue eyes darkened with desire rather than sleep, those perfect lips parted on Azrael’s name.

His body dissolved into shadow, slipping through the castle walls like liquid darkness.

The night embraced him, cool against the fever burning inside him.

He flowed over the city, past the construction sites where Lucien’s vision was already taking shape, past the relief camp where his master’s compassion had transformed lives.

Every improvement a testament to his brilliance. A brilliance Lord Whatshisface and his ilk failed to appreciate.

Azrael reformed on the roof of the noble’s estate, a gaudy monstrosity of pointed spires and overwrought ornamentation.

Typical. He extended his senses, mapping the interior like a predator studying its hunting ground.

Sixteen guards, poorly positioned. Twenty-three servants, most asleep.

And Lord Whatshisface—not in his bedchamber but in his study. With company.

Perfect. An audience would make the lesson more effective.

He slipped through a decorative grate, reconstituting himself in a darkened corner of the hallway. The voices from the study carried to his enhanced hearing with perfect clarity.

“…cannot allow these changes to continue,” Lord Whatshisface was saying, voice tight with barely controlled rage. “The dark lord has been corrupted by void influences. He speaks of ‘equality’ and ‘fair distribution’ as if the natural order of dominance were meaningless!”

“The common demons grow bold,” another voice agreed—Baron Nevermind. “My servants actually questioned my orders yesterday. Questioned! As if they had the right!”

“And these… enhancements,” a third voice added—Lady Afterthought. “The void substances strengthen the lower classes disproportionately. They begin to rival our natural superiority.”

“Precisely,” Lord Whatshisface said. “Which is why we must act decisively. The shipment of construction equipment arriving tomorrow presents an opportunity. If an accident were to occur—a catastrophic one, resulting in significant casualties?—”

“The dark lord would be forced to reconsider his approach,” Baron Nevermind finished. “Especially if evidence suggested the void equipment itself was unsafe.”

“And if the accident claimed some of his favorite pets—that construction supervisor, perhaps, or the healer—his enthusiasm might wane further,” Lady Afterthought suggested.

“We must be careful to maintain deniability,” Lord Whatshisface cautioned. “We have contacts who can arrange the sabotage through intermediaries. No direct connection to us.”

“And if these measures fail to dissuade him?” Baron Nevermind asked.

A pause, pregnant with implication.

“Then more… permanent solutions may be required,” Lord Whatshisface said softly. “The realm survived his three-century absence. It would survive another.”

Azrael’s vision went red, then black, then crystalline with perfect clarity. The temperature around him plummeted so drastically that frost formed on the walls, creeping across the surface like delicate lacework. His rage was a living thing, a beast clawing at his insides, demanding blood.

They were plotting against Lucien. His Lucien. Planning to harm what belonged to him.

No one touched what was his. No one.

He flowed under the door like liquid darkness, reforming in the center of the study with deliberate slowness. Let them watch. Let them see their death approaching inch by inch, like a horror movie played at quarter speed.

“Lord Azrael!” Lord Whatshisface gasped, stumbling back against his desk like a man who’d seen his own death reflected in a mirror. “This—this is an outrage! An invasion of a noble house!”

“Correction,” Azrael said, his voice soft as a lover’s whisper. “This is an execution.”

The three nobles froze, faces draining of color faster than exsanguinated corpses.

“You misunderstand,” Lady Afterthought began, her voice trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. “We were merely discussing theoretical concerns?—”

“You were discussing treason,” Azrael interrupted, smiling pleasantly.

The expression felt wrong on his face, like a mask that didn’t quite fit.

“Conspiracy to commit sabotage. Plotting potential harm to my master’s favored subjects.

And most egregiously”—his voice dropped to a whisper that somehow filled the room like smoke—“contemplating ‘permanent solutions’ regarding Lord Lucien.”

He removed his gloves one finger at a time, the sound of fine leather sliding against skin obscenely loud in the silent room.

“I had intended merely to provide educational correction regarding your behavior at dinner. A reminder of proper respect.” He unwrapped his instruments, letting them see each gleaming blade, each specialized needle, each tool designed specifically for the extraction of regret.

“But you’ve elevated tonight’s curriculum considerably. ”

Baron Nevermind lunged for the door with the desperate energy of a cornered animal. Azrael didn’t bother to move. He simply gestured, and the baron froze mid-step, only his eyes able to move, darting frantically in their sockets like trapped insects.

“Now, now,” Azrael chided, his tone the gentle admonishment of a teacher correcting an overeager student. “The lesson hasn’t even begun. It would be terribly rude to leave early.”

With another casual gesture, he locked the study door and activated a silencing ward. The magic pulsed around them, sealing them in a bubble where screams could flourish without disturbing his sleeping lord.

He removed his tailcoat, folding it with meticulous care—a surgeon preparing for a delicate operation. Rolled up his shirtsleeves with precise, methodical movements, revealing pale forearms corded with lean muscle.

“You seem to be laboring under several misconceptions,” he said, selecting a thin, curved blade from his collection. The silver caught the light, winking like a co-conspirator. “About Lord Lucien. About your position in the hierarchy. About the consequences of disloyalty.”