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DARK SERVICE 1 - THE DARK LORD AWAKENS

Copyright © 2025 by Zara K. Lee

Published by Mystic Lotus Press
www.mysticlotuspress.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical
methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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 Contents

Dark Service
1. Beau
2. Azrael
3. Lucien/Beau
4. Lucien/Beau
5. Lucien/Beau
6. Azrael
7. Lucien/Beau
8. Lucien/Beau
9. Lucien/Beau
10. Lucien/Beau
11. Lucien/Beau
12. Lucien/Beau
13. Lucien/Beau
14. Azrael
15. Azrael
16. Lucien/Beau
17. Lucien/Beau
18. Lucien/Beau
19. Lucien/Beau
20. Lucien/Beau
21. Lucien/Beau
22. Lucien/Beau
23. Lucien/Beau
24. Azrael
25. Wes & Cole
Thank you!
Dark Billionaire Romance
Mafia Dark Romance
Also by Zara Lee
About the Author

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 Dark Service

My parents said I could be anything, so I became the Dark King. Now

taking applications for minions, lovers, and a good therapist.

They say getting hit by a truck is the gateway to another world. They’re not
wrong. One minute I’m saving a kid from becoming roadkill, the next I’m
waking up as the gorgeous and apparently homicidal demon king. Talk
about a career change!
I’m Lucien Noir, your friendly neighborhood dark lord. Armed with
powerful magic and a hot-as-hell butler named Azrael, I’m inheriting a
kingdom in crisis. Between terrified citizens, crumbling infrastructure,
refugees fleeing from a shadow monster in the forest, and a magical
interdimensional shopping assistant who judges my every purchase, I’ve
got my hands full trying to modernize this medieval realm.

And Azrael? He’s the perfect butler—elegant, efficient, and absolutely

devoted. He’s also a sadistic demon who gets way too excited about
torturing anyone who looks at me wrong. His idea of “serving his master”
gets more intense by the day, and that possessive gleam in his eyes when he
watches me? Let’s just say maintaining professional boundaries is
becoming… complicated.
Who knew my business degree would come in handy for rebuilding a dark
kingdom? Though I’m pretty sure “How to Handle Your Increasingly
Unhinged Butler’s Sexual Tension” wasn’t covered in any of my classes.

Dark Service: The Dark Lord Awakens is Book 1 in a MM reverse harem

fantasy romance series featuring:

A snarky protagonist dark lord

Light kingdom building with a modern twist
Master/servant power dynamics
Size difference that’ll make you weak in the knees
A butler who’s both perfectly proper and deliciously unhinged
(yandere levels of devotion!)
A passive-aggressive magical interdimensional shopping assistant
with corporate-speak issues
Slow-burn tension that promises to explode
First of many gorgeous men to fall for our dark lord

Contains elements of fantasy romance, light kingdom building, and a butler

who takes “serving his master” to new levels of intensity.

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 1

Beau

I
slouched in my ergonomically challenged chair, drowning in a sea of
corporate monotony. The call center sprawled before me like a vast
cubicle-infested wasteland filled with adults wearing headsets and
speaking in tones so artificially sweet they could give you diabetes. And
there I was, sticking out like a sore thumb with a sunburn—a scrawny
twenty-two-year-old with skin so pale it could’ve been mistaken for fresh
printer paper. My messy hair and thick glasses completed the look of a
stereotypical nerd who’d stumbled into the wrong dimension. Probably
because I had.
The ceiling loomed above, a labyrinth of massive vents that wheezed
with every blast of recycled air. I wondered if they were secretly plotting to
suck us all into oblivion. It’d be more exciting than another day in customer
service purgatory.
My headset crackled to life, and I plastered on my best fake smile—not
that the caller could see it, but hey, they say it comes through in your voice.
“Welcome to OpenSesame. You’re speaking with Beau. How may I assist in
your online shopping crisis today?”
“Oh là là!” the caller exclaimed. “Are you French? Can you speak
French to me?”
I bit back a groan. Ah yes, the daily ‘are you French’ routine—as
predictable as my paycheck and twice as annoying. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but
I’m about as French as a Big Mac. Is there something I can actually help
you with today?”
 “But your name is Beau! That’s French!”
“It’s just my name, ma’am. A cruel joke by my parents, really. Now,
about your order⁠—”
“Your voice is so sexy,” she purred. “Say something naughty to me in
French.”
My eye twitched. Time to channel my inner high school French teacher.
“Très bien, madame. Je termine cet appel. Au revoir.” Translated to: “Very
well, madam. I’m ending this call. Goodbye.” I hung up before she could
protest, resisting the urge to bang my head against the desk. Another
satisfied customer served with a side of existential dread.
As I waited for the next call, my thoughts drifted to my ridiculous name.
Beau Adonis Percival Quixote Macbeth. It sounded like my parents had
thrown a bunch of random words into a blender, hit puree, and poured out
whatever literary smoothie came out. Beau—probably because my mom
thought it sounded fancy, or maybe I came out looking “beautiful” after
putting her through twenty hours of labor. Adonis—clearly, my parents had
a sense of humor, or possibly severe visual impairment. Percival—Dad’s
obsession with Arthurian legends, or maybe they thought I’d grow up to be
a knight instead of a human punch line. Quixote—because apparently, they
wanted me to tilt at windmills for the rest of my life. And Macbeth—
because why not top it all off with a curse from ol’ Billy Shakespeare
himself?
I sighed, remembering all the times I’d been teased about it. My name
had been a thorn in my side since day one, a gift that kept on giving in the
form of endless mockery. From playground taunts to college snickers, it
seemed the universe had decided that Beau Adonis Percival Quixote
Macbeth was the punch line to a cosmic joke—and I was the unwilling
stand-up comedian. My parents were certified cuckoo, but I couldn’t deny
they loved me. They’d embraced my weirdness from day one, even if their
naming choices had set me up for a lifetime of pain and terrible French
pickup lines.
Speaking of comedy, my parents, in their infinite wisdom, had decided
it was high time I spread my wings and flew the nest. And by spread my
wings, I mean they kicked me out faster than you can say financial
independence. So, at the ripe old age of eighteen, armed with nothing but a
high school diploma and a sense of impending doom, I merrily waltzed out
of their lives and into the arms of adulthood.
 Enter OpenSesame, the mega-retailer of the internet on steroids. This
behemoth of online retail had everything from toothpicks to space shuttles,
and somehow, they’d decided that I was qualified to be the voice of their
customer service. Me, with my sultry tones that could apparently charm the
pants off unsuspecting callers. Who knew?
Now, OpenSesame wasn’t just content with being the world’s
everything store. Oh no, they had to go and become a bank too. Because
why stop at selling you stuff when they could also hold your money
hostage? It was brilliant, really. They’d made it so easy to spend money that
I half expected my wallet to grow legs and walk itself to their headquarters.
I was a sucker for their promotional offers, falling for them hook, line,
and sinker. Sweet buns in bulk? Sign me up! Who cares if I can’t pay rent
this month? At least I’ll have enough buns to build a small, delicious fort.
As I sat there, daydreaming about my next meal—despite having eaten
lunch mere hours ago—I felt a familiar sensation. The hunger pangs hit me
like a freight train, causing me to salivate embarrassingly. My stomach was
a bottomless pit, constantly demanding tribute. Not that it was doing much
good—I’d plateaued at a towering five foot five, much to my chagrin.
Apparently, my body had decided that being mistaken for a middle schooler
was my true calling.
I quickly wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve, hoping to
salvage what little dignity I had left. But alas, it was too late. I’d been
spotted by the office Aphrodite herself, Veronica “Don’t You Dare Breathe
Near Me” Johnson.
Veronica was everything I wasn’t—tall, stunning, and apparently
allergic to kindness. Her perfectly coiffed blond hair and immaculate
makeup made her look like she’d just stepped off a magazine cover, while I
looked like I’d been dragged through a hedge backward. She sat across
from me, a constant reminder of the genetic lottery I’d failed to win.
Her piercing green eyes narrowed as they landed on me, her perfectly
shaped eyebrows arching in disgust. She leaned over to her equally
glamorous sidekick, whispering something that made them both titter like
hyenas at a comedy club.
“Having trouble keeping your food in your mouth, Beau?” Veronica’s
voice dripped with fake sweetness. “Or are you just practicing for your next
call? I hear your fans can’t get enough of your… oral skills.”
 I felt my face heat up faster than a microwave burrito. “Just savoring the
memories of lunch,” I quipped, trying to maintain some semblance of
dignity. “It’s a skill you might want to try sometime, Veronica. You know,
actually eating?”
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “At least I don’t look like I raid
dumpsters for my wardrobe.”
“Ouch,” I clutched my chest dramatically. “You wound me with your
originality, Veronica. Did you stay up all night thinking of that one?”
Before she could respond, my headset crackled to life, saving me from
further verbal evisceration. As I turned to answer the call, I caught Veronica
miming gagging to her friend. Just another day in paradise, I thought,
plastering on my best fake smile as I prepared to charm another
unsuspecting caller with my apparently irresistible voice.
“Welcome to OpenSesame,” I purred into the mic. “This is Beau. How
may I seduce… I mean, assist you today?”
“Oh, hello,” a timid voice responded. “I’m having trouble with my
account. Can you help me?”
I switched into professional mode, guiding the caller through the
labyrinth of our website’s account settings. As I wrapped up the call, I
caught Veronica rolling her eyes dramatically at my customer service voice.
I shot her a sarcastic smile and mouthed, “Jealous?”
Just as I was about to bask in the glow of a successfully resolved issue,
and Veronica’s annoyance, another call came through. I straightened up,
ready to face whatever fresh hell awaited me in this digital inferno. But then
Craig’s voice bulldozed through my headset like a verbal wrecking ball.
“Beau! Get over here!”
I groaned internally, my brief moment of triumph evaporating like mist
in the morning sun. Craig’s voice had that particular edge to it—the one that
screamed incoming disaster louder than a foghorn in a library. What now?
Another impossible customer? A system meltdown? Or had someone finally
snapped and started a cubicle uprising?
With the weight of a thousand unanswered emails on my shoulders, I
reluctantly removed my headset. My feet felt like they were encased in
concrete as I contemplated the trek to Craig’s desk. Part of me wondered if I
could fake a sudden onset of spontaneous combustion. But no, even that
wouldn’t get me out of whatever fresh horror Craig had in store.
 I took a deep breath, summoning every ounce of willpower I possessed
—which, admittedly, wasn’t much after eight hours of customer service.
Time to face the music—or in this case, the discordant symphony of office
chaos that was undoubtedly waiting for me.
I ambled across the room, dodging coworkers like they were landmines
in a particularly peppy war zone. Craig, our floor manager, was leaning
against a desk, his face a mask of barely contained panic—his default
expression since taking this job.
“Abby’s out sick. I need you to cover her shift.”
I frowned, a mental image of my bank account flashing before my eyes
—numbers redder than a bullfighter’s cape with a sunburn. The extra cash
would be nice, sure, but so would a night off. I weighed the prospect of
overtime against the allure of my couch, cold pizza, and my scheduled raid
in Enolyn. Tough choice: virtual monster slaying or real-life soul crushing?
“Sure, Craig. I’ll stay.” The words left my mouth before my brain could
tackle them to the ground. My inner responsible adult had won again. Damn
him.
Craig’s relief was palpable. “You’re a lifesaver, Beau. Thanks.”
“No problem,” I lied, mentally canceling my evening plans. “What’s
another four hours of my life sacrificed to the corporate gods, right?”
Craig chuckled nervously, clearly not sure if I was joking. “Right. Well,
just take over Abby’s station. You know the drill.”
I nodded, trudging back to my desk to collect my things. As I passed
Veronica, she gave me a pitying look that somehow managed to be
condescending at the same time.
“Overtime again, Beau? You must really love this place.”
I flashed her a smile that was all teeth. “What can I say? I live for the
thrill of explaining to people how to reset their passwords.”
The next four hours crawled by with all the speed of a snail on
tranquilizers. I fielded calls from the irate to the incomprehensible, each one
chipping away at my will to live. By the time my extended shift finally
ended, I felt like I’d aged a decade.
The office had emptied out, leaving me alone with the hum of
fluorescent lights and the distant sound of the cleaning crew. I gathered my
belongings, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over me like a lead
blanket. My stomach growled in protest, reminding me that I’d missed
dinner for this.
 “Patience, my friend,” I muttered, patting my belly. “Pizza awaits.”
As I made my way to the elevator, I checked my phone. Three missed
calls from my roommate, Tyler, and a text that simply read: Dude, rent’s due
tomorrow. You got your half?
I winced, doing quick mental calculations. With tonight’s overtime, I’d
just barely make rent, but that meant no pizza. The universe truly had a sick
sense of humor.
The elevator doors slid open with a cheerful ding that seemed to mock
my misery. Inside, I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes for a brief
moment. The descent to the lobby felt like a metaphor for my life—a slow,
controlled fall with no clear destination.
Outside, the night air hit me like a slap to the face, cold and
unforgiving. New York City never truly slept, but at this hour, it had at least
dozed off a bit. The streets were quieter, the usual cacophony of horns and
shouts reduced to a dull murmur.
Hours later, I slipped out of OpenSesame’s corporate maw and into the
New York City night. The subway swallowed me whole as I found a seat
among the tired faces and questionable smells. My stomach grumbled in
protest over the missed dinner, performing an impressive impersonation of
a hungry bear with a megaphone.
Out came my phone. First stop—checking my bank balance and
wincing at the digits that were far too low for comfort. Next—because self-
torture is apparently my hobby—I searched my name online. Because who
doesn’t love a good dose of public humiliation before bed?
“The Sexy Voice from OpenSesame.” My jaw dropped at the blog title
glowing back at me. Clicking through revealed voice clips ripped from calls
and written odes to “the sultry tones of Beau.” Comments ranged from
“OMG, I want him to read me bedtime stories” to “Is it weird that I’m
turned on by his warranty explanations?” I was flattered and horrified in
equal measure. Tomorrow’s project: learn how to take down a website. Or
change my name. Or move to Antarctica. Decisions, decisions.
Trying to distract myself from my newfound, unwanted fame, I flipped
to Enolyn: Build Your Empire. Here, in this digital realm, Beau didn’t exist.
Instead, I was Lucien Noir, King of Darkness—because if you’re going to
have an alter ego, why not go full emo? My domain, Iferona, was an
expanse of shadow and sinewy demons under my command. Level ninety-
nine and counting since age fifteen—that’s what happens when you replace
your social life with pixels and power-ups.
Azrael, my loyal butler—because every King of Darkness needs a
manservant with a name that screamed I’m definitely not evil—had sent a
message about some unrest among the demon generals. Great. Even in my
fantasy world, I couldn’t escape workplace drama. I could almost see him
now, Azrael the Merciless, Harbinger of Despair, probably ironing my cape
with the same meticulous care he used when disemboweling my enemies.
Talk about a diverse skill set.
The Ironstriders guild always caught my eye; their strategy and strength
were things of beauty in this digital realm. But it wasn’t just their gaming
prowess that had me hooked. No, the real draw was the guild’s illustrious
leaders: Caspian and Zephyr. These two weren’t just digital demigods; they
were walking, talking Greek statues come to life, complete with chiseled
abs and brains that could put supercomputers to shame.
In the game, they were unstoppable. Their tactics for bringing down
monsters were like watching a chess grandmaster play speed chess while
blindfolded—impossibly clever and maddeningly effective. But in real life?
They were Professor Wes Sinclair and Dr. Cole Holloway, the dynamic duo
who lectured at my university.
I’d sit in their classes, trying desperately to focus on the intricacies of
business strategy or computer science, all while battling the urge to drool
over Wes’ golden locks or Cole’s piercing gray eyes. It was a losing battle,
really. How was I supposed to concentrate on market analysis when Wes’
biceps were right there, straining against his fitted shirt as he wrote on the
whiteboard?
My obsession didn’t stop at the classroom door. Oh no, I’d gone full
stalker mode—in the most pathetic way possible, of course. I’d spend hours
scrolling through their social media, analyzing every post, every photo, like
some deranged digital detective. Did Wes prefer lattes or cappuccinos? Was
that Cole’s cat in the background of that one blurry photo? These were the
pressing questions that kept me up at night.
In class, I could challenge their ideas and engage in debates—that
academic armor gave me confidence. But the moment the discussion veered
toward anything personal or the bell rang, that courage evaporated. The
thought of applying to join the Ironstriders? Terrifying. Asking them about
anything beyond coursework? Impossible. So I remained in my self-
imposed exile outside of class discussions, admiring from afar, dreaming of
a day when I might work up the nerve to connect with them as people rather
than just professors.
I was so lost in thoughts of my professors—ahem, I mean, guild leaders
—that I almost missed my stop. Scrambling to my feet, I just barely made it
through the doors before they closed. The station was nearly deserted, my
footsteps echoing in the cavernous space as I made my way to the exit.
Emerging from the subway into the night’s embrace, thoughts of food
and my hopeless crush haunted me more than any ghost could. My mind
churned with pizza toppings and ridiculous scenarios where I somehow
impressed Wes and Cole with my wit and charm. Yeah, right.
The streets were surprisingly busy for this time of night. New York, the
city that never sleeps—or at least has a severe case of insomnia. I navigated
through the crowds, my stomach leading the way toward the nearest pizza
place that might still be open.
That’s when I heard it—a screech of tires that cut through the night like
a knife. My head snapped up, eyes searching for the source of the sound.
A cacophony of honks sliced through the air like a knife through my
cheese-filled, crush-laden daydreams. The world snapped into sharp focus
as I spotted a woman and her child frozen like deer in headlights—an
oncoming truck barreling toward them with unyielding momentum.
Time seemed to slow. In that moment, I wasn’t Beau the awkward nerd.
I was Lucien Noir, the King of Darkness, faced with a real-life boss battle.
Without processing the decision fully, I darted forward. My legs, usually
reserved for shuffling between my bed and my computer chair, pumped
with a strength I didn’t know I possessed.
I reached the pair just as the truck’s headlights illuminated their terrified
faces. With a grunt that was far from heroic, I shoved them clear, feeling a
rush of relief as they tumbled safely onto the sidewalk.
But physics, that cruel mistress, wasn’t done with me yet. My moment
of triumph was cut short as I realized I was now in the direct path of two
tons of speeding metal. The truck horn blared one final warning, a banshee
wail heralding my impending doom.
Pain exploded across my body as I was thrown into the air. For a brief,
surreal moment, I had a perfect view of the night sky, the stars twinkling
indifferently at my plight. Then gravity remembered I existed, and I came
crashing down. The cold pavement kissed my cheek with all the tenderness
of a jackhammer.
Dizziness took hold as colors danced before my eyes, the world
spinning like I was trapped in some sadistic merry-go-round. Not exactly
how I planned to end my night, but at least it wasn’t another phone call.
As darkness crept in, I realized it wasn’t just my skin that was pale—the
world itself had lost its color. Regrets filled me—why hadn’t I eaten?
Would OpenSesame deliver to the afterlife? If reincarnation was real,
maybe next time I’d be someone who lived life fuller—someone like
Lucien Noir. Or at least someone who remembered to have dinner before
playing hero.
My last conscious thought wasn’t of the life I’d saved or even of my
beloved Wes and Cole. No, in true Beau fashion, it was, “I really wish I’d
had that pizza.” At least there’s no overtime where I’m going.
As the world faded to black, I couldn’t help but think, if this was the
end, it was a pretty anticlimactic way to go. No epic boss battle, no
legendary loot drop—just a splat on the pavement and a grumbling
stomach.
In my final moments of consciousness, I wondered if Wes and Cole
would hear about my heroic deed. Maybe they’d finally notice me, the
awkward student who became a local hero. But knowing my luck, they’d
probably just mark me absent for the next class.

I
floated through darkness, weightless and formless. No pain, no hunger
—just peaceful nothingness. Was this death? If so, it was surprisingly
comfortable. No fire and brimstone, no angels with harps—just the
void. I could get used to this.
Then sensation started creeping back. First, softness beneath me—
impossibly plush and smooth, like lying on a cloud made of marshmallows
and unicorn fur. Next came warmth, enveloping me like a cocoon. Finally, a
distant sound—breathing? Not mine.
My eyes fluttered open, and I immediately regretted it. Even the dim
light felt like needles stabbing directly into my brain. I blinked rapidly,
trying to adjust, wondering if heaven came with complimentary sunglasses.
 When my vision finally cleared, I froze. This was definitely not my
cramped apartment bedroom with its water-stained ceiling and perpetually
broken blinds.
I was sprawled across the most massive bed I’d ever seen—a
monstrosity that could comfortably fit a family of elephants with room for
their extended relatives. Crimson silk sheets pooled around me, so smooth
they practically whispered against my skin. The bed itself was a four-poster
behemoth carved from some dark wood, with intricate designs that seemed
to move if I looked at them too long.
Beyond the bed, the room stretched on like some kind of royal chamber
from a fantasy movie—one with an unlimited CGI budget. Towering
ceilings arched overhead, supported by elegant columns. Massive windows
draped with heavy velvet curtains lined one wall, while ornate tapestries
depicting scenes of battle and conquest adorned another. A fireplace large
enough to roast an entire cow crackled with blue-tinged flames in the
corner.
“What the actual…” I muttered, my voice raspy. Had I been kidnapped
by some eccentric billionaire with a medieval fetish? Was this an elaborate
prank? Or had I actually died and gone to… luxury hotel heaven?
I shifted, expecting pain from my truck-meets-human encounter, but
everything worked fine. Better than fine, actually. I felt… strong.
Energized. Like I’d finally gotten enough sleep for the first time in my life.
That’s when I noticed him—a figure kneeling at the foot of the bed,
head bowed in what looked like reverence. One knee on the floor, the other
bent, in that classic “I pledge my fealty” pose.
“Um… hello?” I ventured, pulling the sheets up to my chest, suddenly
aware I was wearing nothing but a silky black robe. “If you’re here to
harvest my organs, could you at least let me have breakfast first?”
The figure raised his head, and my breath caught in my throat. If
Michelangelo’s David had a hot, brooding older brother with a gym
membership and a penchant for gothic fashion, this would be him. Tall and
imposingly built, with shoulders broad enough to carry my student debt and
then some. His face was all sharp angles and perfect symmetry, pale skin
contrasting with jet-black hair. But his eyes—dear God, his eyes. They
glowed red, like embers in a dying fire, set deep in his aristocratic face. He
wore what looked like a butler’s uniform, but tailored to perfection,
hugging his muscular frame in all the right places.
 His expression remained perfectly composed, almost stoic, as he
regarded me. But something in those glowing eyes hinted at deeper
emotions churning beneath the surface.
“My lord,” he spoke, his voice deep and smooth as aged whiskey. “You
have finally awakened. After three hundred years, Iferona once again basks
in your presence.”
I blinked. Then blinked again. Clearly, the truck had hit me harder than I
thought.
“I’m sorry, what?” I managed, eloquent as ever. “Three hundred years?
Lord? Look, I think there’s been a mistake. I’m just Beau, the guy from
OpenSesame customer service who got intimately acquainted with the front
of a truck. Speaking of which, shouldn’t I be in a hospital? Or, you know,
dead?”
The man’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in those
unnerving red eyes—confusion, perhaps?
“My lord Lucien,” he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken, “your realm has
suffered in your absence. The demons grow restless, the neighboring
kingdoms encroach upon our borders, and the forces of light gather
strength. Your loyal servants have maintained order as best we could, but
only the true Dark King can restore Iferona to its former glory.”
I stared at him, waiting for the punch line. When none came, I pinched
myself—hard. Ow. Okay, not dreaming. Maybe a coma? A very detailed,
oddly specific coma featuring characters from my favorite game?
“You think I’m… Lucien Noir?” I asked slowly. “As in, the King of
Darkness? Ruler of Iferona? That Lucien Noir?”
“You are indeed Lucien Noir, sovereign of the Dark Realm, master of
shadows, commander of demons, and rightful heir to the Obsidian Throne,”
he confirmed with absolute certainty.
“Right.” I nodded, playing along. “And you are…?”
“Azrael, my lord. Your most loyal servant and steward of your realm
during your long slumber.” He bowed his head again. “I have guarded your
body and your throne since you fell into your enchanted sleep.”
Azrael. My butler character from Enolyn: Build Your Empire. The NPC
I’d designed to be the perfect right-hand man—efficient, deadly, and
unwaveringly loyal. Except he wasn’t supposed to be real. None of this
was.
 “Where exactly am I?” I asked, looking around the room again, noticing
details I’d missed before—like how the shadows in the corners seemed to
move independently or how the blue flames in the fireplace cast no heat.
“You are in your bedchamber within the Dark Citadel, the heart of your
kingdom of Iferona,” Azrael replied, still kneeling. “Would you like me to
summon the royal physician to examine you? Your confusion is
concerning.”
“No!” I said quickly. The last thing I needed was more strange people
poking at me. “No physicians. I just… need a moment to orient myself. It’s
been, uh, hundreds of years, after all.”
Azrael nodded solemnly. “Of course, my lord. The disorientation is to
be expected after such a prolonged magical slumber.”
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, half expecting them to pass
through the floor and confirm this was all some bizarre hallucination. But
no—my feet touched cold marble, solid and real. I stood cautiously, the
silky robe flowing around me like liquid shadow.
“So let me get this straight,” I said, pacing the room, trying to process.
“I’m Lucien Noir, the Evil Overlord of Iferona, who’s been asleep for
hundreds of years, and now I’m back to… what? Reclaim my throne? Fight
the forces of light? Attend evil overlord conventions?”
“To rule, my lord,” Azrael said simply, rising gracefully to his feet. He
towered over me, at least a foot taller, but maintained a respectful distance.
“Your enemies know you were defeated and fell into magical slumber. They
will tremble at the news of your awakening.”
I ran a hand through my hair—which felt silkier than I remembered—
and caught sight of my reflection in a nearby mirror. I froze.
The face looking back at me was… mine, but not. Still pale but
enhanced in ways that made my real-world self look like a first draft. My
reflection showed sharp features and sapphire eyes that seemed to glow
against milk-white skin. Silky silver-white hair framed my face, short and
perfectly styled—exactly how I’d designed Lucien. I was still shorter than
I’d designed Lucien to be in the game—I’d made him a respectable six feet
tall, but this body seemed to be about five foot seven, a strange compromise
between my real five-foot-five frame and my fantasy avatar. And where I’d
been scrawny before, this body was toned and graceful, with lean muscle
definition that I’d never achieved despite years of wistful gym
memberships.
 I looked exactly like I’d imagined Lucien Noir would look.
“Holy crap,” I whispered, touching my face in disbelief.
“Is something amiss, my lord?” Azrael asked, appearing behind me in
the mirror, his imposing figure making mine look even more delicate by
comparison.
“Just… taking inventory,” I said weakly. “So, Azrael, catch me up.
What’s been happening while I’ve been, uh, napping for centuries?”
Azrael’s expression remained impassive, but I swore I saw a flicker of
relief in those eerie red eyes. “The realm has maintained its borders, though
not without difficulty. The demon generals have grown ambitious in your
absence. The humans in the surrounding kingdoms have expanded their
territories and strengthened their armies. And the heroes…” He paused, his
jaw tightening slightly. “The heroes believe you will sleep for centuries, my
lord. They grow bolder with each passing year.”
“Heroes,” I repeated.
Something dangerous flashed across Azrael’s face. “They are not
spoken in your presence, my lord. They are your sworn enemies, the ones
who—” He stopped abruptly. “Forgive me. I should not speak of such
unpleasantness upon your awakening.”
My mind raced. This was insane. I was somehow inside the world of
Enolyn, living as my character, with my NPC butler treating me like I was
actually the Dark King. Either this was the most elaborate coma fantasy
ever, or I’d somehow been transported into the world of my favorite game.
Neither option seemed particularly likely, but here I was.
“Azrael,” I said, deciding to test the waters, “what’s the last thing you
remember about me? Before I fell into this… magical sleep?”
Azrael’s brow furrowed slightly. “You were preparing for battle, my
lord. The heroes had breached our outer defenses. You were summoning a
great spell to destroy them once and for all, but something went wrong. The
magic backfired, and you collapsed. The heroes saw you fall into slumber,
but they underestimated how quickly you would return.” I could sense your
life force, faint but present. I secreted you away to this chamber, warded
against all intruders, and have guarded you ever since, waiting for your
return.”
Well, that didn’t match any gameplay scenario I remembered. In
Enolyn: Build Your Empire, the game was exactly what it sounded like—
players built their own domains and ruled them however they wanted. My
character, Lucien Noir, was just one of thousands of players developing
territories across different realms. I’d spent years leveling up to ninety-nine
and turning Iferona into something I was proud of, all while watching the
legendary Ironstriders guild take down the toughest challenges from a safe,
admiring distance. The game was ongoing, with regular updates and new
content, not some linear storyline with a predetermined ending.
“And you’ve been waiting all this time?” I asked, genuinely touched by
the fictional character’s loyalty. “For hundreds of years?”
“I would wait millennia if necessary, my lord,” Azrael said with such
conviction that I almost believed him. “My existence is bound to yours. My
purpose is to serve you.”
Great. No pressure or anything.
“Well,” I said, clapping my hands together and immediately regretting
the loud noise, “I suppose I should… get back to evil overlording, then? Is
there a manual? A daily agenda? Evil Overlording for Dummies, perhaps?”
Azrael’s lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile.
“There are pressing matters requiring your attention, my lord, but nothing
that cannot wait until you have fully recovered. Perhaps you would like to
bathe and dress first? I have taken the liberty of preparing your chambers.”
As if on cue, my stomach growled loudly—apparently dimensional
travel worked up an appetite. Azrael didn’t react, but I swear I saw that
almost-smile again.
“And perhaps breakfast?” he suggested.
“Yes, definitely breakfast,” I agreed eagerly. “Food first, evil schemes
later. That’s my motto.”
“As you wish, my lord.” Azrael bowed deeply. “I shall have the kitchens
prepare your favorite dishes.”
As he turned to leave, a thought struck me. “Azrael? One more thing.”
He paused, looking back at me expectantly.
“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “For, you know, waiting for me. For not
giving up.”
Something shifted in Azrael’s expression—a softening around the eyes,
perhaps, or a slight relaxation of his rigid posture. For just a moment, I
glimpsed something beyond the perfect butler facade—something almost…
human.
“It is my honor to serve you, Lord Lucien,” he said quietly. “Always.”
 As the door closed behind him, I sank back onto the bed, my head
spinning. Somehow, I’d gone from being hit by a truck in New York to
waking up as an evil overlord in a fantasy realm. My butler was a demon
who’d waited centuries for me to wake up. And I was expected to rule a
kingdom of darkness when I couldn’t even manage my student loan
payments.
“Well, Beau,” I muttered to myself, “looks like you’ve finally found
something worse than customer service.”

OceanofPDF.com
 2

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.
Perfectly normal keepsakes for a loyal steward. Certainly nothing that
would be considered concerning or obsessive. He most certainly did not
sometimes hold these items to his chest in the darkest hours of night,
pretending they still carried Lucien’s warmth. That would be pathetic, and
Azrael was many things, but pathetic was not among them.
With his daily duties completed, Azrael adjusted the curtains one final
time and prepared to leave. He paused at the foot of the bed, allowing
himself one last lingering look at his sleeping master—a ritual he had
performed countless times over the centuries.
“Until tomorrow, my lord,” he murmured, the words a promise and a
prayer.
As he turned toward the door, a flicker of movement caught his
attention. A subtle shift in the air, a whisper of magic that hadn’t stirred in
three hundred years. Azrael froze, hardly daring to believe what his senses
told him.
He turned slowly, afraid that hope might shatter this moment like fragile
glass.
 And then—miracle of miracles—Lord Lucien’s eyes opened. Those
sapphire blue eyes, more vibrant than Azrael remembered, blinked in
confusion at the canopy above.
Azrael’s world stopped. Shattered. Rebuilt itself around that single
moment.
His heart thundered so violently he feared it might burst from his chest.
Heat flooded his body, a scalding wave of euphoria that threatened to bring
him to his knees. Finally. Finally. Finally. The word pulsed through him
with each frantic heartbeat.
His hands trembled as they hovered over Lucien’s form, desperate to
touch, to confirm this wasn’t another cruel dream. Three centuries of perfect
control unraveled in seconds. His breath came in silent, shallow gasps. His
vision tunneled until all he could see was Lucien’s face—those parted lips,
those bewildered eyes, that perfect skin now flushed with returning life.
Mine. The thought blazed through him, primal and possessive. He’d
preserved this perfection. Protected it. Waited for it. And now Lucien was
awake, breathing, living—mere inches from Azrael’s trembling fingers.
He wanted to gather Lucien into his arms. Press his face into that silver
hair and inhale the scent he’d been denied for centuries. Feel the warmth of
living flesh against his own. Claim what he’d protected for so long.
The urge was so overwhelming that frost crystallized on the bedposts as
his power leaked through his faltering control. A nearby glass cracked
silently from the pressure of his unrestrained aura.
With monumental effort, Azrael forced himself back from the precipice
of obsession. He couldn’t allow Lucien to see him like this—wild-eyed and
desperate, more beast than butler. His master deserved perfection, not this
raw, ravenous creature that lived beneath Azrael’s carefully constructed
facade.
He retreated to the foot of the bed, each step physical agony, and
dropped to one knee. The formal posture helped center him, though his
pulse still raced beneath his skin like caged lightning. He lowered his eyes,
not trusting what Lucien might see in them—devotion so intense it bordered
on madness, hunger so deep it had no bottom.
“My lord,” he said, his voice miraculously steady despite the tempest
raging within. “You have finally awakened. After three hundred years,
Iferona once again basks in your presence.”
 He kept his gaze lowered, focusing on the pattern of the carpet,
counting threads to steady himself. The sound of sheets rustling as Lucien
sat up sent another jolt through him—such a simple sound, yet one he’d
dreamed of hearing for centuries.
“I’m sorry, what? Three hundred years? Lord? Look, I think there’s
been a mistake. I’m just Beau, the guy from OpenSesame customer service
who got intimately acquainted with the front of a truck. Speaking of which,
shouldn’t I be in a hospital? Or, you know, dead?”
Azrael’s head snapped up before he could stop himself. Those weren’t
his lord’s words. That wasn’t his lord’s manner of speaking. For a terrifying
moment, he wondered if some entity had possessed Lucien’s body during
his slumber—a thought that sent murderous rage coursing through his
veins.
No. No. The magical signature was unmistakable. This was Lucien—his
Lucien—even if something about him seemed… altered. The long sleep
must have affected his memory, his mannerisms. Nothing that couldn’t be
corrected with time and proper guidance.
“My lord Lucien,” he continued, struggling to keep his voice even while
cataloging every minute change in his master’s appearance—the slightly
different way he held his head, the unfamiliar expressions crossing his
perfect features. “Your realm has suffered in your absence. The demons
grow restless, the neighboring kingdoms encroach upon our borders, and
the forces of light gather strength. Your loyal servants have maintained
order as best we could, but only the true Dark King can restore Iferona to its
former glory.”
Lord Lucien stared at him, those beautiful eyes wide with confusion.
“You think I’m… Lucien Noir? As in, the King of Darkness? Ruler of
Iferona? That Lucien Noir?”
“You are indeed Lucien Noir, sovereign of the Dark Realm, master of
shadows, commander of demons, and rightful heir to the Obsidian Throne,”
Azrael confirmed, his voice resonating with the authority of absolute
certainty. Each word was a proclamation, a statement of fact that could not
be questioned. Could not be denied. He would not allow it to be otherwise.
“Right.” Lord Lucien nodded, his expression unreadable. “And you
are…?”
The question pierced Azrael like a blade of ice. Had Lucien forgotten
him? After everything? After centuries of devotion? His chest constricted
painfully, but his face revealed nothing. If his lord did not remember him,
then Azrael would simply make himself unforgettable once more.
“Azrael, my lord. Your most loyal servant and steward of your realm
during your long slumber.” He bowed his head again, maintaining his
formal posture while his mind raced. “I have guarded your body and your
throne since you fell into your enchanted sleep.”
He watched as Lord Lucien looked around the room, taking in details as
if seeing them for the first time. Azrael followed his gaze, seeing the
chamber through new eyes—the ornate carvings on the bedposts, the
ancient tomes lining the shelves, the enchanted flames burning in the
fireplace. All maintained in perfect condition for centuries, waiting for this
moment.
“Where exactly am I?” Lucien asked, and Azrael’s heart twisted at the
genuine confusion in his voice.
“You are in your bedchamber within the Dark Citadel, the heart of your
kingdom of Iferona,” Azrael replied, still kneeling though every instinct
screamed at him to move closer, to touch, to reassure himself that Lucien
was truly awake. “Would you like me to summon the royal physician to
examine you? Your confusion is concerning.”
“No!” Lord Lucien said quickly, the vehemence in his words surprising
Azrael. “No physicians. I just… need a moment to orient myself. It’s been,
uh, hundreds of years, after all.”
Relief flooded through Azrael. At least his lord seemed to be accepting
his identity. The rest could be addressed with time. “Of course, my lord.
The disorientation is to be expected after such a prolonged magical
slumber.”
He watched as Lord Lucien stood, swaying slightly on his feet. The silk
robe Azrael had dressed him in that morning flowed around his slender
body like liquid shadow. Azrael’s gaze traced the line of Lucien’s throat, the
curve of his wrist, the way the fabric clung to his shoulders. Every detail
precious. Every movement a miracle.
A surge of pride swept through him as he noted how perfectly his
master’s form had responded to his preservation spells—with the
modifications he’d allowed himself. Over the centuries, he had gradually
reduced Lord Lucien’s height from the imposing six feet to a more…
manageable five foot seven, carefully adjusting his overall proportions to
maintain a perfect aesthetic balance. His frame was now more elegant than
imposing, his musculature refined rather than bulky—changes Lord Lucien
would likely attribute to the effects of his centuries-long slumber, if he
noticed them at all.
It pleased Azrael to have his master at a height where he could more
easily attend to his needs. More easily protect him. More easily… other
things, which he refused to acknowledge even in the privacy of his own
thoughts. The rest of his features remained as striking as the day he had
fallen into his enchanted sleep, a testament to Azrael’s diligent care.
“So let me get this straight,” Lord Lucien said, pacing the room. “I’m
Lucien Noir, the Evil Overlord of Iferona, who’s been asleep for hundreds
of years, and now I’m back to… what? Reclaim my throne? Fight the forces
of light? Attend evil overlord conventions?”
Azrael rose gracefully to his feet, unable to remain kneeling while his
master moved about the room. The urge to follow Lucien, to stay within
touching distance, was nearly overwhelming. “To rule, my lord. Your
enemies believed you defeated when you fell into your enchanted sleep.
They will tremble at the news of your return.”
He watched as Lord Lucien examined himself in the mirror, touching
his face with an expression of disbelief. “Holy crap,” his master whispered.
Azrael appeared behind him in the mirror, unable to maintain distance
any longer. Standing this close, he could detect Lucien’s scent—that unique
combination of shadow magic and something intrinsically him that Azrael
had preserved in a crystal vial beside his bed, opening it on the darkest
nights when his loneliness threatened to consume him.
“Is something amiss, my lord?” he asked, scanning his master’s
reflection for any flaw, any imperfection he might have missed. There was
none. Lucien was exactly as he should be—exactly as Azrael had kept him.
From this proximity, he could see the pulse beating in Lucien’s throat.
Could count each silver eyelash. Could feel the warmth radiating from his
body—a warmth Azrael had been denied for centuries. It took every ounce
of his considerable willpower not to reach out and touch, to confirm that
warmth with his own hands.
“Just… taking inventory,” Lord Lucien said weakly. “So, Azrael, catch
me up. What’s been happening while I’ve been, uh, napping for centuries?”
Azrael felt a surge of relief. This was familiar territory—reports, facts,
information. Things he could provide without revealing the storm of
emotions threatening to crack his perfect facade.
 “The realm has maintained its borders, though not without difficulty,”
he began, his voice steady despite his proximity to Lucien. “The demon
nobles have grown ambitious in your absence. The humans in the
surrounding kingdoms have expanded their territories and strengthened
their armies. And the heroes…” He paused, his jaw tightening slightly at the
thought of those self-righteous fools who had dared to harm what belonged
to him. “The heroes believe you vanquished, my lord. They grow bolder by
the day.”
“Heroes,” Lord Lucien repeated, and something in his tone made
Azrael’s protective instincts flare.
“They are not spoken of in your presence, my lord,” he said, a
dangerous edge creeping into his voice despite his best efforts. “They are
your sworn enemies, the ones who—” He stopped abruptly, not wanting to
upset his master with such unpleasantness so soon after awakening. Not
wanting to reveal his own failure to protect Lucien from them. “Forgive me.
I should not speak of such unpleasantness upon your awakening.”
Lord Lucien asked more questions, each one stranger than the last.
When he inquired about the events leading to his slumber, Azrael provided
the official account—the one he had maintained for centuries. The truth was
more complicated, more painful, but this was neither the time nor place for
such revelations.
“And you’ve been waiting all this time?” Lord Lucien asked, his voice
soft with what sounded like genuine concern. “For hundreds of years?”
The question caught Azrael off guard. No one had ever asked how he
felt about his vigil. No one had ever considered that it might have been a
burden rather than a duty. But it hadn’t been—not really. Every day at
Lucien’s side, even in slumber, had been a privilege.
“I would wait millennia if necessary, my lord,” Azrael said, meaning
every word with absolute certainty. His gaze locked with Lucien’s in the
mirror, allowing a fraction of his devotion to show through his carefully
maintained mask. “My existence is bound to yours. My purpose is to serve
you.”
Lord Lucien seemed taken aback by his intensity. “Well,” he said,
clapping his hands together, breaking the moment, “I suppose I should…
get back to evil overlording, then? Is there a manual? A daily agenda? Evil
Overlording for Dummies, perhaps?”
 Azrael blinked, momentarily caught off guard. This humor was
unexpected—so different from the cold dignity his lord had once possessed.
It was… charming, in a way he hadn’t anticipated. The novelty of it almost
pulled a smile from him, something that hadn’t happened in three hundred
years of rigid formality.
“There are pressing matters requiring your attention, my lord, but
nothing that cannot wait until you have fully recovered,” he said, allowing
his voice to soften slightly. “Perhaps you would like to bathe and dress
first? I have taken the liberty of preparing your chambers.”
Lord Lucien’s stomach growled loudly, and Azrael felt a surge of
protectiveness. His lord was hungry. This was something he could fix
immediately. This was a need he could fulfill, a way to be useful, to be
necessary.
“And perhaps breakfast?” he suggested, already mentally reviewing the
kitchens’ inventory, calculating what delicacies could be prepared most
quickly.
“Yes, definitely breakfast,” Lord Lucien agreed eagerly. “Food first, evil
schemes later. That’s my motto.”
“As you wish, my lord.” Azrael bowed deeply, ready to fulfill his role.
The thought of providing for Lucien, of meeting his needs after so long,
sent a wave of satisfaction through him. “I shall have the kitchens prepare
your favorite dishes.”
As he turned to leave, Lord Lucien called after him. “Azrael? One more
thing.”
He paused, looking back expectantly, cataloging the way the morning
light caught in Lucien’s silver hair, the way his eyes seemed to shift
between shades of blue depending on the angle.
“Thank you,” Lord Lucien said sincerely. “For, you know, waiting for
me. For not giving up.”
Something shifted in Azrael’s chest—a warm, unfamiliar sensation that
spread through him like wildfire. For just a moment, he allowed his formal
mask to slip, revealing a glimpse of the devotion that consumed him.
“It is my honor to serve you, Lord Lucien,” he said quietly, the words
inadequate to express the centuries of longing, of purpose, of obsession.
“Always.”
The moment stretched between them, heavy with unspoken meaning,
before Azrael bowed once more and slipped from the room.
 As soon as the door closed behind him, Azrael leaned against the wall,
his breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His hands—hands that had
dismembered enemies without trembling—shook violently as he pressed
them against the cold stone. His heart hammered so hard he could hear it, a
frantic rhythm that threatened to crack his ribs.
Lucien was awake. Lucien was alive. Lucien had thanked him.
A sound escaped him—half laugh, half sob—before he could strangle it.
He pressed his forehead against the wall, eyes squeezed shut as waves of
emotion crashed through him. Relief. Joy. Hunger. Need. Three centuries of
waiting, of longing, of purpose fulfilled in a single moment.
His lord had returned to him.
When he had regained some semblance of control, Azrael reached into
his pocket and withdrew a small crystal orb—one of dozens he kept on his
person at all times. With a whispered incantation, he pressed his fingertip to
his temple, drawing out a silvery strand of memory.
The memory of Lord Lucien awakening, of their conversation, of that
final moment of gratitude—he captured it all, feeding the silvery substance
into the crystal until it glowed with a soft blue light. He would add this to
his private collection, a treasure more valuable than all the gold in Iferona’s
vaults.
Tucking the crystal away, Azrael straightened his immaculate uniform
and smoothed back his hair. His lord was hungry. The thought ignited a
primal satisfaction in him—here was a need he could fulfill immediately, a
way to demonstrate his value, his necessity, his devotion.
The kitchen staff scattered like cockroaches when Azrael swept into
their domain, his presence filling the cavernous space like a storm cloud.
The scent of fear permeated the air, sweet and familiar.
“Prepare Lord Lucien’s breakfast,” he commanded, his voice echoing
off the stone walls. “He has awakened.”
The head chef, a corpulent demon named Head Chef 001 Ramsay,
dropped the cleaver he was holding. It embedded itself in the wooden floor,
quivering like a nervous servant.
“L-Lord Lucien is awake?” Head Chef 001 Ramsay stammered, his
multiple eyes blinking in asynchronous shock. “Truly?”
“Would I jest about such a matter?” Azrael’s voice was deadly soft, a
tone that had preceded the deaths of countless servants over the centuries.
The temperature in the kitchen dropped several degrees, frost forming on
the nearest metal surfaces.
“N-no, Lord Azrael!” Head Chef 001 Ramsay bowed so low his
multiple chins touched the floor. The sight was pathetic, but appropriately
reverent. “What shall we prepare?”
Azrael’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. The thought of providing for
Lucien, of seeing him consume the feast prepared at Azrael’s command,
sent a wave of pleasure through him that bordered on inappropriate.
“His favorites, of course,” he purred. “Roasted manticore heart, still
beating. Kraken ink soup with eyeball dumplings. And for the main course,
the traditional Feast of Ascension—a full-grown hellhound, skinned and
roasted with its head still attached so it may witness its own consumption.”
The kitchen staff stood frozen, staring at him in horror. Their fear was a
delicious perfume, but their inaction was intolerable.
“Well?” Azrael snapped, a crack appearing in the stone floor beneath his
feet as his control slipped momentarily. “Why are you standing there?
Move!”
The kitchen erupted into frantic activity, demons scurrying in all
directions like insects beneath a lifted rock. Head Chef 001 Ramsay
waddled over to Azrael, wringing his many-fingered hands in a gesture that
made Azrael contemplate removing several of them as decorative souvenirs.
“Lord Azrael,” he whispered nervously, “we have no manticore heart.
The last manticore in the realm was hunted to extinction eighty years ago.”
Azrael’s eyes narrowed dangerously, a crimson glow emanating from
their depths. “Then find a substitute. Something equally impressive.”
“We have a hydra spleen?” Head Chef 001 Ramsay suggested
hopefully.
“Fine.” The word fell like an executioner’s axe. “And the hellhound?”
“We have several in the kennels, my lord.”
“Select the largest. And ensure its vocal cords remain intact.” Azrael’s
lips curved into a smile that made the chef take an involuntary step
backward. “Lord Lucien enjoys the screaming.”
This was a lie but it was the sort of detail that maintained the
appropriate atmosphere of dread. Fear was a necessary ingredient in proper
service. The staff performed better when they believed their lives depended
on it. Which, of course, they did.
 As the kitchen staff rushed to prepare the grotesque feast, Azrael
permitted himself a small moment of satisfaction. His lord had returned.
The purpose that had driven him for centuries was finally fulfilled. Now he
could truly serve, truly demonstrate his value, truly⁠—
The thought of being close to Lucien again, of attending to his needs, of
being the focus of those sapphire eyes sent a wave of heat through Azrael
that had nothing to do with duty and everything to do with something he
refused to name.
He dismissed the feeling as irrelevant. Whatever it was, he would
analyze it later. For now, there was work to be done. His master was
waiting, and Azrael would sooner tear out his own heart than keep Lucien
waiting a moment longer than necessary.
The Dark King had returned, and Azrael would ensure he wanted for
nothing.

OceanofPDF.com
 3

Lucien/Beau

I
stared at the ceiling of my new bedroom, trying to process the fact that I
was apparently now the Evil Overlord of Darkness, or whatever my
fancy title was. The canopy above me was draped in rich black silk with
silver embroidery that seemed to slither and move when I wasn’t looking
directly at it—like those creepy paintings where the eyes follow you around
the room. Except with the added bonus of possible demonic possession.
“This is fine,” I muttered to myself. “Totally normal Tuesday. Just got
hit by a truck and woke up in my video game. Happens to everyone.
Probably covered by OpenSesame’s employee health plan under
‘interdimensional workplace accidents.’”
While waiting for Azrael—my personal demon butler who was
definitely giving off “too hot to be just a servant” vibes with his crimson
eyes and perfect jawline—to return with breakfast, I decided to take stock
of my situation. I padded over to the window and yanked back the heavy
velvet curtains. The view hit me like a double espresso to the eyeballs.
Spread out below me was Iferona—my domain, my creation, my digital
kingdom turned terrifyingly real. I was clearly in one of the highest towers
of the Dark Citadel, giving me a perfect vantage point of the sprawling city
below. From this eagle’s eye view, I could see how the other obsidian
towers of the citadel rose around me, creating the imposing silhouette I’d
designed to intimidate my enemies. Beyond the city walls stretched
farmlands bathed in permanent dusk, then marshlands, and finally the
barren wasteland that served as a natural border.
 “Holy crap on a cracker with a side of what the actual hell,” I
whispered, pressing my face against the glass like a five-year-old at an
aquarium. “It’s exactly how I designed it.”
And it was. Every detail matched what I’d painstakingly created in
Enolyn: Build Your Empire. The game had been my escape for years—a
place where awkward, forgettable Beau could be powerful, respected
Lucien Noir. I’d spent countless hours perfecting my dark domain, building
it from a small outpost into a thriving realm while normal people were out
doing things like “having friends” and “developing social skills.”
Well, “thriving” might be generous. Last time I’d checked—which was
yesterday on the subway before my date with truck-kun—Iferona had been
facing some challenges. Population decline, resource shortages, unhappy
demons, the usual management nightmares. I’d been planning to implement
some reforms after work, maybe reorganize the agricultural districts to
improve food production.
Instead, I’d gotten isekai’d. Because apparently that’s a thing that
happens when you do one (1) heroic deed. The universe has a sick sense of
humor.
I squinted at the city below, trying to gauge its condition. From this
distance, it looked… worse than in the game. Buildings that should have
been impressive were crumbling like stale cookies. Streets that should have
been bustling seemed nearly empty. The magical barriers at the borders—
visible as a faint purple haze—appeared to be flickering like a dying
lightbulb.
“Three hundred years,” I murmured, remembering Azrael’s words. “No
wonder everything’s gone to hell. Or, well, more to hell than it already was,
being a hell-adjacent realm and all.”
My business administration degree suddenly seemed a lot more relevant
than I’d ever expected it to be. If this was real—and the cold marble under
my feet, the scent of dust and magic in the air, and the hunger gnawing at
my stomach all suggested it was—then I had an actual kingdom to manage.
A kingdom that, according to Azrael, was in serious trouble.
I turned away from the window and began exploring my chambers. The
room was massive, easily the size of my entire apartment back home.
Actually, scratch that—it was the size of my entire apartment building.
Besides the bed, there was a sitting area with plush chairs arranged around a
blue-flamed fireplace, a desk piled with scrolls and books, and several
doors leading to what I assumed were additional rooms.
Opening the first door revealed a bathroom that would make a luxury
hotel weep with envy. A sunken tub the size of a small pool dominated the
center, with various crystal bottles of oils and soaps arranged around its
edge. Faucets shaped like dragon heads promised to deliver hot water on
demand—a luxury I hadn’t expected in a medieval fantasy realm.
“At least evil overlording comes with good plumbing,” I muttered.
“One point for the forces of darkness.”
The second door led to a walk-in closet filled with elaborate outfits that
screamed “villain with a flair for the dramatic and possibly back problems
from all the excessive shoulder padding.” Capes, high-collared shirts,
leather pants that looked impossibly tight—exactly the kind of wardrobe I’d
imagined for Lucien Noir. There was even a section dedicated solely to
accessories: crowns, rings, amulets, all dripping with dark gems and
ominous power.
I was fingering a particularly impressive cape (because who doesn’t
want to swish around dramatically while giving evil monologues?) when a
knock at the main door interrupted my exploration.
“Enter,” I called, then winced at how squeaky it sounded. I cleared my
throat and tried again, dropping my voice an octave. “ENTER.”
The door swung open to reveal Azrael, followed by a procession of
servants carrying silver platters. Each servant was a different type of demon
—some with multiple arms, others with scales or horns, one that seemed to
be made entirely of shadow. They arranged themselves in a line, heads
bowed, waiting for some signal.
I straightened my spine and tried to look imposing while only wearing
nothing but a silky robe. Still, fake it till you make it, right?
Azrael stepped forward, his perfect posture making me acutely aware of
my own slouch. “Your breakfast, my lord,” he announced with a flourish.
On cue, the servants removed the silver covers from their platters,
revealing… oh sweet merciful gods of all realms.
The first dish appeared to be a massive organ—still pulsing—floating in
a viscous purple liquid. The second was a black soup with what looked
suspiciously like eyeballs bobbing on its surface like the world’s most
horrifying bubble tea. And the centerpiece, on the largest platter, was the
roasted carcass of some doglike creature, its head still attached and its dead
eyes staring accusingly at me. Its lips were pulled back in a permanent
snarl, revealing razor-sharp teeth.
My stomach lurched violently. I’d been hungry, but suddenly the idea of
food seemed like the worst thing imaginable. Right up there with “juggling
chainsaws” and “swimming with hungry sharks while covered in fish guts.”
“Is something amiss, my lord?” Azrael asked, noticing my expression.
“Does the presentation not please you? I can have the staff flogged if the
arrangement is not to your liking.”
“No! No flogging necessary,” I said quickly, swallowing hard and trying
not to look at the eyeballs, which seemed to be looking back at me. “It’s
just… I’ve just awakened after centuries of slumber. My stomach might
need something a bit… lighter to start with.”
Azrael’s perfect eyebrow arched slightly. “Lighter, my lord?”
“Yes, perhaps something like…” I searched desperately for a food that
might exist in this realm and wouldn’t involve still-beating organs.
“Porridge? Just a simple porridge would be fine.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Every demon in the room
stared at me as if I’d suggested we all hold hands and sing campfire songs
about friendship and rainbow unicorns.
“Porridge,” Azrael repeated, the word sounding foreign on his tongue.
“The peasant gruel made from boiled grains?”
“That’s the one,” I confirmed, trying to sound confident in my bizarre
request. I puffed out my chest slightly and added, “It’s excellent for… for
rebuilding magical reserves after prolonged magical slumber. Very…
restorative. Dark magic requires… precise nutritional balance.”
I was bullshitting so hard I could practically feel the manure piling up
around my ankles.
The servants exchanged glances, clearly confused by their lord’s
pedestrian taste. One small demon actually looked offended, as if my
rejection of the hellhound roast was a personal insult to his entire lineage.
Azrael, ever the perfect butler, recovered quickly. “Of course, my lord.
If porridge is what you desire, porridge you shall have.” He turned to the
servants. “Return these dishes to the kitchen and prepare a bowl of…
porridge… for Lord Lucien.”
The servants bowed and retreated, taking the horrifying feast with them.
I couldn’t help but notice their disappointed expressions—they’d clearly
worked hard on this grotesque breakfast. I almost felt bad. Almost. But not
as bad as I would have felt vomiting all over their shoes after attempting to
eat a still-pulsing organ.
“Perhaps some fruit as well?” I suggested hopefully. “If you have any
that aren’t, you know, screaming or poisonous or filled with the souls of the
damned?”
Azrael’s lips twitched in what might have been amusement. “We have
blood apples in the orchard, my lord. They are quite sweet, despite their
name.”
“Perfect,” I said, relieved. “Blood apples sound… delicious. Very…
bloodlike. Which I, as an evil overlord, obviously enjoy. Blood. Yum.”
I was really nailing this evil thing.
As the last servant disappeared through the door, I gestured to one of the
plush chairs by the fireplace. “While we wait, perhaps you could fill me in
on the state of our domain? I’d like to know exactly what I’m dealing with.”
Azrael inclined his head and moved to stand beside the chair I’d
indicated, hands clasped behind his back. “What specifically would you like
to know, my lord?”
I sank into the chair, trying to look regal rather than overwhelmed. I
spread my legs a bit wider than necessary and rested my elbows on the
armrests, going for “casual dictator” vibes. “Let’s start with population.
How many subjects do we currently have?”
“The last census, conducted fifty years ago, counted approximately
forty thousand demons within Iferona’s borders,” Azrael replied. “However,
I suspect the number has declined since then. Many have fled to neutral
territories, seeking better conditions.”
“Forty thousand?” I frowned. “That’s less than half what we had in—” I
caught myself before saying ‘in the game.’ “Before my slumber.”
“Indeed, my lord. The population has been in decline for some time.
The lack of leadership—other than my humble efforts—has led to
instability. Resources have become scarce, and the constant threat from the
neighboring kingdoms has made many seek safer havens.”
I nodded, processing this information. In the game, I’d built Iferona up
to house over a hundred thousand demons of various types. I’d established
specialized districts for different demon castes, created infrastructure to
support their needs, and implemented policies to encourage growth. All of
that work, apparently undone by three centuries of neglect.
“And our resources?” I asked. “The mines, the farmlands, the marshes?”
 “The Obsidian Mines are nearly depleted,” Azrael reported, his tone
matter of fact. “The Twilight Farmlands produce enough to prevent
starvation, but only just. The Murk Marshes remain largely untapped due to
the dangers they present. We lack the manpower to properly harvest their
resources.”
This was worse than I’d thought. In the game, those areas had been key
to Iferona’s economy. The mines provided building materials and magical
crystals, the farms fed the population, and the marshes yielded rare
ingredients for potions and spells.
“What about our military strength?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“The Shadow Legion stands at approximately five thousand troops,”
Azrael said, a hint of pride entering his voice. “I have maintained strict
training regimens despite the declining numbers. They remain formidable,
though not nearly as powerful as during your reign.”
Five thousand. We’d had twenty thousand in the game. This was a
disaster. A catastrophe. A five-alarm dumpster fire of epic proportions.
“And our enemies?” I asked.
Azrael’s expression darkened slightly at the question, like a
thundercloud passing over the sun. His eyes flashed crimson for a split
second, and I swear the temperature in the room dropped by several
degrees.
“The Groston Empire, led by High Luminary Thaddeus Brightshield
and their champion Paladin Commander Valorian Lightheart, has expanded
its territory to our eastern border. They preach the eradication of dark magic
and all who practice it. The Cizia Republic, where Chancellor Aurelia
Goldvein and their battlemage Sylvan Stormcaller hold significant
influence, maintains a strict embargo against us from the west. Together
with smaller kingdoms, they have formed the Heroes’ Alliance, dedicated to
—” He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. “Your permanent
defeat.”
Great. So not only was my kingdom falling apart, but I had a bunch of
self-righteous heroes gunning for me. The universe wasn’t just laughing at
me; it was rolling on the floor, holding its sides, and wheezing with glee.
“When I’m feeling stronger,” I said, “perhaps we should tour the
domain. I need to see the conditions for myself.”
Azrael’s eyes lit up with something like approval. “An excellent
suggestion, my lord. It would also reassure the populace to see you have
returned. Your presence alone would do much to restore morale.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. If I was as terrible an evil overlord as the
title suggested, my return might cause more panic than celebration. Like
announcing a surprise audit at the office or telling kids the dentist is making
a house call.
A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.
“Enter,” I called, remembering to deepen my voice this time. Nailed it.
A small, nervous-looking demon scurried in, carrying a tray with a
steaming bowl and a plate of what must be blood apples—ruby red and
perfectly round. He couldn’t have been more than three feet tall, with
enormous bat-like ears that twitched anxiously and big yellow eyes that
darted around the room.
“Your… porridge, my lord,” the demon said, setting the tray on a small
table beside my chair before backing away quickly, as if afraid I might bite.
Given what they’d tried to serve me earlier, the irony wasn’t lost on me.
I peered into the bowl. It looked like normal porridge, thankfully—
creamy and topped with what appeared to be honey and some dark berries.
The apples, despite their ominous name, looked delicious.
“Thank you,” I said automatically.
The little demon froze, eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. His
ears shot straight up, quivering with what appeared to be shock. Then his
face split into a grin so wide it seemed physically impossible, revealing
rows of tiny needlelike teeth.
“The Dark Lord thanked me!” he squeaked, bouncing slightly on his
toes. “He thanked ME! Tray 15! He knows I exist!”
Beside me, Azrael went rigid. The temperature in the room plummeted
so suddenly I half expected to see my breath. His eyes flashed crimson, and
for a split second, I glimpsed something beneath his perfect butler facade—
something possessive and dangerous and decidedly not human.
“That will be all,” Azrael said, his voice smooth as silk but cold as ice.
“Lord Lucien requires privacy for his meal.”
Tray 15 didn’t seem to notice the death glare being directed at him. He
was too busy having what appeared to be a religious experience, clutching
his hands to his chest and staring at me with something akin to worship.
“Of course, of course! Anything for the Dark Lord! Tray 15 will go
now! But Tray 15 will remember this day forever! The day the Dark Lord
thanked Tray 15!”
 He backed toward the door, bowing so low his nose nearly touched the
floor, then scurried out, still grinning maniacally.
As the door closed, I turned to find Azrael staring at me with an
unreadable expression. Well, mostly unreadable. The eye-twitching and
slight jaw-clenching gave away that something had definitely gotten under
his perfectly pressed collar.
“Did I say something wrong?” I asked innocently, reaching for my
porridge.
“You… thanked him, my lord,” Azrael explained carefully, as if talking
to a child. “It is… unusual for the Dark King to express gratitude to
servants.”
Oh. Right. Evil overlord and all that. Probably more of a “do this or die
screaming” kind of boss than a “thank you for your contributions to the
team” manager.
“Well,” I said, trying to recover, “consider it a new policy. Positive
reinforcement. Makes for better service.” I waved my hand dismissively,
trying to channel my inner dictator. “Fear is all well and good, but a little
appreciation keeps the minions loyal.”
Azrael’s eye twitched again, but he nodded. “As you say, my lord.”
Was it my imagination or did he sound… jealous? Surely not. Why
would an ancient, powerful demon butler care if I thanked some little imp?
I dipped my spoon into the porridge and took a cautious bite. It was
surprisingly good—creamy and sweet, with a hint of spice I couldn’t
identify. Cinnamon’s evil twin, perhaps.
“This is excellent,” I said between bites. “My compliments to Chef…
what was his name?”
“Head Chef 001 Ramsay,” Azrael supplied, watching me eat with an
intensity that was slightly unnerving. Like a hawk watching a particularly
juicy field mouse. “He will be most pleased that you approve, though
perhaps confused by your… unusual tastes.”
I nearly choked on my porridge. Head Chef 001 Ramsay? That name
actually stuck? I remembered creating it during a three a.m. gaming session
while binge-watching cooking competitions, my bleary eyes barely able to
focus on the character creation screen. “Name your royal chef,” the prompt
had said, and my sleep-deprived brain had thought “Chef Ramsay… but
make it sound official… with numbers!” was absolutely brilliant.
 And Tray 15—good Lord. I’d named all the serving staff after their
functions plus random numbers because I couldn’t be bothered to come up
with actual names for NPCs I’d barely interact with. “Tray 1 through 50,
report for duty!” I’d declared, cackling at my own efficiency while shoving
microwaved pizza into my mouth.
I’d given about as much thought to those names as I did to picking
socks in the morning, and now actual living beings were walking around
with them, apparently for centuries.
“Everyone has their quirks. Even Dark Kings. Especially Dark Kings,” I
managed, trying to sound like this was all intentional. “Quirks are what
make us… dark. And kingly.”
Azrael’s lips twitched again in that almost-smile. “Indeed, my lord.”
As I ate, I considered my options. I could try to maintain the facade of
the terrifying evil overlord that everyone seemed to expect, or I could be
honest about who I really was—a confused call center employee who had
somehow ended up in his favorite video game.
The first option seemed safer. If these demons thought I was some kind
of impostor, who knew what they might do? But pretending to be someone I
wasn’t—someone apparently feared and possibly hated—didn’t sit well
with me either. Customer service had taught me many things, but “how to
be an effective tyrant” wasn’t one of them.
There was a third option, of course. I could embrace this new role but
do it my way. Use my knowledge of business administration and
management to rebuild Iferona, improve conditions for its inhabitants, and
maybe, just maybe, find a way to coexist with the neighboring kingdoms
without all the “eternal darkness shall reign” drama. It would be like
continuing where I’d left off in the game, but with the ultimate immersive
experience—actually implementing all those kingdom improvements I’d
planned but never got around to.
After all, if I was stuck here, I might as well make the best of it. This
was essentially my game save file come to life, just with a few centuries of
neglect to fix. And honestly, being an evil overlord had to be better than
customer service. At least when people called me names here, I could
probably turn them into toads or something. Plus, I’d spent years
theorycrafting the perfect dark kingdom in forum posts—now I could
actually test those ideas in real time.
 I finished my porridge and set the bowl aside, reaching for the blood
apple. It was juicy and sweet, with a hint of tartness that reminded me of the
best parts of both cherries and apples.
“So,” I said, wiping juice from my chin, “before we tour the domain, I
should probably figure out what I can actually do. You know, power-wise. If
I’m going to face these heroes eventually, I need to know what I’m working
with.”
“A wise decision, my lord,” Azrael said. “Your powers have likely been
dormant during your slumber. Testing their limits would be prudent.”
I glanced down at my silky robe, which was admittedly not appropriate
attire for magical practice. “I should probably get cleaned up first, though.”
“Perhaps you would care to refresh yourself with a bath?” Azrael
suggested. “The magical waters of the Obsidian Springs will help awaken
your dormant abilities.”
Now that sounded useful. “A bath sounds great, actually,” I said,
suddenly aware of how grimy I felt. Three hundred years of magical sleep
apparently didn’t come with complimentary sponge baths. Or if it did, I
didn’t want to think about who had been giving them.
Azrael bowed slightly. “Excellent. I shall prepare it immediately.”
I followed him back to the bathroom I’d discovered earlier, watching as
he moved around the space. He turned the dragon-head faucets, releasing
steaming water into the massive sunken tub. The water shimmered slightly,
like it contained flecks of gold or starlight.
Great. Magic bath water. Just what I needed—another reminder that I
was way out of my depth here. I was more familiar with the “hope the hot
water doesn’t run out before you’re done” variety of bathing.
Azrael selected several crystal bottles from a nearby shelf, adding drops
of various liquids to the water. The air filled with exotic scents—something
like cinnamon but darker, smokier, with hints of spices I couldn’t name.
Then he scattered what looked like flower petals across the surface—deep-
purple blooms that seemed to pulse gently.
“Midnight orchids,” he explained, catching my curious glance. “They
absorb negative energy and promote clarity of thought.”
“Handy,” I said. “Do they also come in air freshener form? Could use
some clarity in my apartment bathroom back home.”
Azrael gave me a puzzled look but continued his preparations.
 When the tub was full and steaming invitingly, I stood awkwardly by
the edge, waiting for Azrael to leave. He didn’t. Instead, he turned to me
expectantly, hands clasped behind his back.
“Um, thanks for setting this up,” I said, making a little shooing motion
with my hands. “I can take it from here.”
Azrael didn’t budge. “My lord, it is my duty to attend to all your needs.
Including your bath.”
I felt heat creep up my neck that had nothing to do with the steaming
water. “That’s really not necessary. I’ve been bathing myself successfully
for years. Decades, even. I’m practically a professional at this point.”
“It would be improper for me to neglect my duties,” Azrael insisted, his
expression perfectly serious. “I have served as your personal attendant for
centuries. It would be a grave dishonor to abandon my responsibilities
now.”
I stared at him, mortified. Had I actually designed him this way in the
game? I tried to remember what parameters I’d set when creating Azrael as
my character’s butler. Loyal, efficient, deadly in combat, unwaveringly
devoted… oh God. “Unwaveringly devoted” could be interpreted in so
many ways, couldn’t it? The game designers had probably taken that and
run with it in directions I’d never intended.
Or had I? There might have been a tiny part of me that found the whole
“devoted butler” trope appealing. In a purely aesthetic, theoretical sense.
Not in an “I’m standing here about to be naked in front of a supernaturally
gorgeous demon” sense.
“Look, Azrael,” I began, then stopped. I was supposed to be the evil
overlord here. The big boss. The head honcho. If I kept acting squeamish
and awkward, he’d definitely suspect something was wrong. Time to
channel my inner Lucien Noir.
I straightened my spine and lifted my chin, trying to look imperious
rather than terrified. “Fine. Attend to your duties, then. I wouldn’t want to
deprive you of your… purpose.”
Was that evil overlord-y enough? It sounded more passive-aggressive
than commanding, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances.
Azrael’s eyes flickered with something—satisfaction? Relief? Hard to
tell with Mr. Stoic—before he bowed deeply. “Thank you, my lord.” He
was behind me, his long fingers untying the sash of my robe. I froze,
suddenly very aware of how close he was standing. I could feel the heat
radiating from his body, smell something like woodsmoke and exotic spices
that must have been his scent.
“Um,” I said eloquently.
The robe slipped from my shoulders, caught deftly by Azrael before it
could hit the floor. I stood there, naked as the day I was born (though
considerably more embarrassed about it), fighting the urge to cover myself
like a scandalized maiden in a period drama.
“The water awaits, my lord,” Azrael said, his voice perfectly neutral, as
if he wasn’t staring at his boss’ bare ass.
I practically dove into the tub, creating a splash worthy of an Olympic
cannonball competition. The water was perfect—hot but not scalding, silky
against my skin. I sank down until only my head remained above the
surface, letting the warmth envelop me.
“Is the temperature to your liking?” Azrael asked, kneeling beside the
tub with a sponge and what appeared to be soap in his hands.
“It’s fine,” I squeaked, then cleared my throat. “I mean, it’s adequate.
For now.”
Azrael nodded, dipping the sponge into the water. “If you would permit
me, my lord…” He began washing my shoulders with firm, efficient
strokes. It was… not unpleasant. Actually, it felt amazing, but I wasn’t
about to admit that out loud.
“So,” I said, desperately searching for a topic of conversation that
wasn’t ‘why are you touching me and why don’t I hate it,’ “tell me more
about these heroes who want me dead. The ones from the Groston Empire
and Cizia Republic.”
Azrael’s hand paused momentarily on my shoulder, his fingers
tightening almost imperceptibly on the sponge. “They are unworthy of
discussion during your bath, my lord. Such unpleasantness would taint the
purification ritual.”
“Purification ritual? I thought this was just a bath.”
“For ordinary beings, perhaps. For the Dark King, even bathing is a
sacred act.”
Of course it was. Evil overlording was apparently a twenty-four seven
job with no casual Fridays.
Azrael continued washing me, his movements clinical and precise. I
tried to relax, telling myself this was just like getting a massage at a spa.
 “Lean forward, my lord,” Azrael instructed, and I complied
automatically. His fingers worked through my hair, massaging some kind of
shampoo into my scalp. It smelled amazing—like a forest after a
thunderstorm.
“What is that scent?” I asked, closing my eyes despite myself. The
massage felt too good to maintain proper evil overlord dignity.
“Shadow laurel extract,” Azrael replied. “It stimulates the mind and
strengthens magical abilities.”
“It smells like rain and pine trees,” I murmured. “Reminds me of
camping trips when I was a kid.”
The fingers in my hair paused for a fraction of a second. “You went…
camping, my lord?”
Shit. That probably wasn’t very dark lord-ish. “For, uh, ritual purposes.
Sacrificing forest creatures. Very dark. Very evil. Lots of… blood and…
stuff.”
“I see,” Azrael said, though his tone suggested he very much did not
see. “Rinse, please.”
I dunked my head under the water, partly to wash out the shampoo and
partly to hide my flaming face. When I emerged, sputtering slightly, Azrael
was waiting with a towel.
“Are we done?” I asked hopefully.
“Unless you require additional services, my lord.”
The way he said “additional services” made me choke on nothing.
“Nope! All good! Very clean now. Squeaky clean. So clean you could eat
off me. Wait, no, that came out wrong. I mean⁠—”
“As you wish,” Azrael said, mercifully cutting off my babbling. He held
out the towel, clearly expecting me to stand up.
Great. Round two of naked humiliation. I rose from the water as quickly
as possible, snatching the towel and wrapping it around my waist before
Azrael could do it for me.
“I can dry myself,” I said firmly, grabbing a second towel for my hair.
Azrael looked like he wanted to object but nodded stiffly. “Very well. I
shall prepare your attire for the power demonstration.”
As he turned to leave, I called after him, “And remember—comfortable!
Nothing with bones or spikes or… whatever those pointy things were on the
other outfit.”
 “As you command, my lord,” Azrael replied, with just the slightest hint
of disapproval in his tone. Apparently, evil overlords weren’t supposed to
prioritize comfort over intimidation. Too bad. This evil overlord had spent
too many hours in uncomfortable call center chairs to sacrifice comfort for
aesthetics.
Once alone, I studied myself in the ornate mirror, surprised by how
quickly I was getting used to the face that stared back. After the bath, my
skin seemed to have a subtle luminescence that I hadn’t noticed before—
almost like it was lit from within. The dark lord aesthetic suited me better
than I cared to admit, though ironically, with my silver-white hair and
glowing pale skin, I looked more like an angel than a demon king. I turned
slightly, examining my profile, still adjusting to the strange feeling of
inhabiting a body that was simultaneously mine and not mine. The magical
bath had left me feeling refreshed, my muscles responding with a strength
and precision my original body had never possessed.
“Well, Beau,” I muttered to my reflection, “at least you got an upgrade
in the physical department when you dimension-hopped. Even if I’m the
least threatening-looking dark lord in the history of evil overlords.”
I couldn’t help but feel a flutter of excitement at the thought of testing
my powers. If I really could command shadows and summon demons…
well, that was a significant upgrade from my previous special talent of de-
escalating angry customers who’d been on hold for two hours.
Maybe being a dark lord wouldn’t be so bad after all.

OceanofPDF.com
 4

Lucien/Beau

“T hese should be suitable, my lord,” Azrael said, presenting me with an

ensemble that struck a reasonable balance between “fearsome dark
lord” and “won’t chafe in uncomfortable places.” Black pants and a
midnight-blue shirt with minimal skull motifs—practically business casual
for the aspiring world dominator. As I dressed, the fabric darkened beneath
my fingers like a mood ring having an existential crisis.
“Did the cloth just… move?” I asked, staring at my sleeve like it might
bite me. Just what I needed—sentient clothing. Because regular laundry
wasn’t complicated enough.
“Your garments are woven with shadow essence, my lord,” Azrael
explained with the patience of someone talking to a toddler discovering
their own reflection. “They respond to your power, even unconsciously.”
Fantastic. I was one emotional breakdown away from turning my
underwear into a black hole. Talk about a wardrobe malfunction.
Azrael guided me through a series of descending corridors, each one
darker and more ominous than the last. The castle’s interior decorator had
clearly been going through a “dungeon chic” phase. The temperature
dropped with every step, like walking into a freezer section where they
stored evil instead of frozen pizzas.
Finally, we reached a set of massive doors carved with intricate runes
that pulsed with eerie blue light. They screamed “something terrible
happens in here” louder than a horror movie basement.
 “The Training Sanctum,” Azrael announced with all the dramatic flair of
a game show host revealing the grand prize.
Inside was what could only be described as a magical panic room on
steroids—a massive underground space that made my old gym look like a
broom closet. Training dummies stood in various positions, all looking
suspiciously like they were plotting revenge for past abuse. Weapon racks
lined one wall, half-empty, as if the previous occupants had left in a hurry.
Or died horribly.
“The barriers can withstand even your most destructive abilities,”
Azrael explained, gesturing to the glowing runes that covered the walls like
mystical graffiti. “Though I would recommend avoiding the Void Collapse
technique. The eastern wing took three months to rebuild after your last
attempt.”
No pressure or anything. Just don’t accidentally delete part of the castle
while figuring out powers I didn’t know I had. Piece of cake. About as easy
as defusing a nuclear bomb while wearing oven mitts.
“I require absolute privacy for this… recalibration of my powers,” I
said, hoping I sounded mysterious rather than constipated. My customer
service voice was finally proving useful for something other than
apologizing for shipping delays.
Azrael bowed with fluid grace. “Of course, my lord. I shall ensure you
are not disturbed.” He backed toward the doors. “The communication
crystal by the entrance will summon me should you require assistance. I
shall begin preparations for your meeting with the generals afterward.”
The moment those doors closed, I did a little victory dance that would
have instantly destroyed any respect my demonic subjects might have had
for me. It fell somewhere between “drunk uncle at a wedding” and “person
who just found out they won a free burrito.”
“Okay, Beau,” I muttered to myself, “time to see if you’ve got the goods
or if you’re just wearing the magical equivalent of stuffed socks in your
metaphorical bra.”
In the game, Lucien Noir had been a Void Sovereign—basically the
edgelord supreme of character classes. Level ninety-nine with all the top-
tier shadow abilities unlocked through hundreds of hours of gameplay, raid
completions, and more microtransactions than my bank account wants to
remember. I’d been the digital equivalent of a trust fund baby, throwing real
money at virtual problems.
 I closed my eyes, trying to remember how I’d activated abilities in the
game. In Enolyn, you’d select skills from a hotbar or use keyboard
shortcuts. Obviously, I couldn’t press F5 in real life unless I wanted to look
like I was checking myself for ticks.
“Status window,” I commanded. Nothing happened.
“Skills list?” Still nothing.
“Character sheet? Player menu? Help?”
After several more increasingly desperate attempts that made me sound
like I was having a conversation with an uncooperative call assistant, I
flopped down on the stone floor with a groan. My butt immediately
regretted this decision—apparently, magical training rooms didn’t prioritize
ergonomics.
“Great. I get transported to a fantasy world but the user interface doesn’t
come with me. Typical.”
I stared up at the distant ceiling, which looked about as inviting as the
underside of my college roommate’s bed. Lucien’s signature move had been
Shadow Step—a short-range teleport that had saved my digital bacon more
times than I could count.
“Maybe I’m overthinking this,” I muttered, climbing back to my feet
with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. “Maybe it’s like trying to remember
the name of that actor—the harder you think about it, the more it eludes
you, but the second you start talking about something else, bam!”
I focused on a shadowy corner across the room, trying to imagine
myself stepping into the darkness here and emerging there. I visualized the
game animation—Lucien dissolving into shadow particles and reforming,
like a very dramatic way to avoid walking.
Nothing happened, except for a slight twitch in my left eyelid.
“Come on,” I growled, trying again with more concentration. Still
nothing. This was going about as well as my attempt to learn Spanish
through osmosis by sleeping.
After five more failed attempts, frustration got the better of me. “Why
won’t you WORK?” I shouted, stomping my foot like a toddler denied a
second helping of ice cream.
And that’s when it happened—not because of any technique or
visualization, but because of pure emotional response. The shadows around
my feet suddenly surged up my legs like living ink. There was a sensation
of movement without moving, like being underwater but without the
pressure, and suddenly I was across the room.
“Holy shit!” I yelped, stumbling as I materialized. The feeling was
nothing like clicking a button in a game—it was disorienting, exhilarating,
and slightly nauseating all at once. Like riding a roller coaster with your
eyes closed while someone unexpectedly tickles you.
I steadied myself against the wall, heart pounding faster than a
caffeinated hamster on a wheel. “Okay, that was… intense. Zero stars,
would not recommend as a hangover cure.”
So it wasn’t about commands or visualizing game mechanics—it was
about intention and emotion. The power responded to what I wanted, not
how I tried to activate it. Less like typing console commands and more like
throwing a temper tantrum until the universe gave in.
Let’s try something else. In the game, Dark Armory had been one of my
favorite abilities—creating weapons from shadow itself. I’d spent an
embarrassing amount of real money on cosmetic skins for my shadow
blades.
Instead of trying to “select” the ability, I simply focused on the concept
of a sword, extending my hand and willing the darkness to form a blade.
The shadows around me stirred reluctantly, swirling toward my palm in
wispy tendrils, but dissipating before forming anything solid—like smoke
trying to remember it had once been a forest fire.
“Almost,” I muttered. “Come on, I know you’re in there.”
I closed my eyes, remembering how it felt to use this ability in the game
—the satisfaction of a perfectly timed weapon summons, the rush of
executing a flawless combo. I reached for that feeling, that confidence that
had been so easy when it was just pixels on a screen.
The air around my hand suddenly grew cold enough to make a freezer
jealous. When I opened my eyes, I was holding… well, sort of holding… a
sword made of shifting darkness. Unlike the clean, defined edges of the
game weapon, this one pulsed and rippled like it was only barely
maintaining its shape, edges constantly dissolving and reforming. It looked
like someone had tried to make a sword out of television static.
“Now we’re talking.” I grinned, giving it an experimental swing that
nearly sent me pirouetting across the room like a very deadly ballerina. In
the game, shadow weapons had been weightless, but this felt substantial—
not heavy exactly but possessing a presence that required actual physical
effort to control.
I swung at a nearby training dummy, expecting the clean, precise
damage animation I was used to. Instead, the blade passed through with a
sound like tearing silk, leaving a jagged gash that leaked shadows instead of
blood. The cut edges smoldered with dark energy, gradually disintegrating
rather than making a clean separation. Less like a clean sword cut and more
like I’d introduced the dummy to a very angry paper shredder.
“Whoa,” I breathed. “Definitely not just a reskin of a regular sword.
More like a delete button with a handle.”
The weapon dissipated as my concentration wavered, darkness
scattering like smoke in wind or my savings account after a sale. Creating it
again was easier the second time, my body remembering the feeling. With
each attempt, the blade became more defined, more stable, less like it was
suffering from an existential crisis.
I moved on to another ability—Abyssal Flames. In the game, this had
been a straightforward area of effect attack that dealt shadow damage over
time, perfect for taking down groups of enemies or making s’mores if you
were into the whole “void-flavored marshmallow” thing.
I focused on the concept of dark fire, extending my hand toward another
dummy with all the confidence of a pyromaniac at a fireworks factory.
Nothing happened. The dummy stared back at me with its featureless
face, somehow managing to look smug despite not having actual facial
features.
“Come on,” I muttered. “Burn, baby, burn. Disco inferno. Or void
inferno. Whatever works.”
Still nothing. Performance issues already? And here I thought magical
powers would at least wait until the second date to disappoint me.
Frustrated, I tried to recall exactly how this had worked in gameplay.
The animation had shown Lucien gathering shadows in his palm before
launching black flames. I mimicked the gesture, cupping my hand as if
holding something precious, like the last pizza roll or a winning lottery
ticket.
This time, I felt a cold tingling in my palm, like pins and needles but
pleasant—the sensation you might get if your hand fell asleep in the Arctic.
A small flicker of darkness appeared, dancing above my skin like a flame in
negative—not giving off light but somehow consuming it, creating a deeper
darkness in the shape of fire. It was like someone had taken the concept of
fire and inverted it, creating something that burned with absence rather than
presence.
“Yes!” I hissed, excitement making the flame grow larger, feeding on
my emotion like a particularly needy houseplant. “Now we’re cooking
with… well, not gas, but whatever fuels shadow fire. Existential dread,
probably.”
I thrust my hand toward the dummy, expecting the flame to shoot
forward like a pyromaniac’s dream. Instead, it clung to my palm stubbornly.
“Go,” I commanded. “Attack. Fly. Do the thing! Sic ’em, boy!”
The flame flickered mockingly, about as responsive as tech support
during a holiday weekend.
“Ugh, why is this so hard?” I groaned. “In the game I just pressed F3
and⁠—”
That’s when it hit me. In the game, I’d been controlling Lucien from the
outside. Now I was Lucien. These weren’t abilities to be activated; they
were extensions of myself. Less like pressing buttons on a controller and
more like wiggling your ears—something that’s technically part of you but
requires a weird mental connection you can’t quite explain.
I took a deep breath, focusing not on commanding the flame but on
extending my will through it. I imagined it as part of me, like an extra limb
or that third arm you always wish you had when carrying too many
groceries.
The black fire responded immediately, surging from my palm in a
torrent that engulfed the dummy like a hungry shadow. Unlike normal fire,
it didn’t burn with heat but with cold—a bone-deep chill that spread
through the air, making my teeth chatter like castanets. The dummy didn’t
burst into flames; instead, it began to disintegrate, parts of it simply ceasing
to exist where the dark fire touched, like watching someone erase a drawing
one stroke at a time.
“Okay, that’s both awesome and terrifying,” I said, closing my fist to
extinguish the flames before they decided to get creative with their
destruction. “Note to self: don’t use that at parties. Or to light birthday
candles. Or ever, if I can help it.”
Over the next hour, I worked through more abilities with varying
degrees of success and property damage. Void Perception came naturally—
a sudden expansion of awareness that let me sense shadows throughout the
chamber and beyond, like having X-ray vision if X-rays only showed you
where darkness lurked. Shadow Dominion proved trickier, my attempts to
manipulate gravity resulting in a section of floor being temporarily
converted to ceiling, complete with training equipment now dangling
precariously overhead like the world’s most threatening pinata display.
The failures were as educational as the successes, in the same way that
touching a hot stove is educational. My attempt at summoning a shadow
construct—Devouring Night in the game—resulted in a formless blob that
oozed around the floor consuming small objects before I managed to
dismiss it. It was like watching a very hungry amoeba with goth tendencies.
An effort to create a shadow clone (a basic utility skill in-game) produced a
vaguely humanoid shape that stood motionless before collapsing into a
puddle of darkness. So much for sending my double to attend meetings
while I napped.
“This is nothing like the game,” I panted, taking a break after a
particularly strenuous attempt at combining abilities had left me lightheaded
and seeing spots that might or might not have been tiny void portals. My
lungs burned like I’d just run a marathon while carrying someone on my
back. “It’s… messier. More intuitive but less precise. Like trying to write
with your nondominant hand while riding a mechanical bull.”
And that was the key difference—these abilities weren’t clean,
programmed skills with defined parameters. They were raw, responsive to
my emotions and intentions in ways a game could never replicate. When I
was confident, they worked better. When I doubted myself, they faltered. It
was like my powers had combined with my anxiety to create the world’s
most dangerous mood ring.
“One more,” I decided, climbing back to my feet with all the
determination of someone who’s already ordered dessert despite being full.
“The big one.”
In the game, Eclipse had been Lucien’s ultimate ability—a
transformation that merged him with shadows, making him nearly
invulnerable for a short time. It had come with a massive cooldown and had
saved my digital bacon more times than I could count. It was the magical
equivalent of hitting the panic button or calling your mom when adulting
got too hard.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the feeling I imagined this ability would
create—becoming one with darkness itself. Unlike the other skills, I didn’t
try to force it or direct it. I simply opened myself to it, inviting the shadows
in, like hosting a dinner party for the void and telling it to make itself at
home.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then I felt it—a profound shift in
perception, like the boundary between me and the darkness around me was
dissolving faster than my resolve in front of a plate of fresh cookies. My
skin tingled as shadows began to seep into it, not covering me but becoming
me, like ink soaking into paper until you couldn’t tell where one ended and
the other began.
The sensation was indescribable—like being everywhere and nowhere
simultaneously. I could feel every shadow in the chamber as if it were part
of my body. I could sense the darkness between stars, the shadows cast by
mountains hundreds of miles away. It was like suddenly growing a million
new limbs, each one touching a different patch of darkness in the world.
Power surged through me, intoxicating and terrifying, like chugging ten
energy drinks while riding a roller coaster during a lightning storm. In the
game, this ability had made Lucien untouchable for thirty seconds. In
reality, it felt like I could tear the castle apart with a thought, rearrange
mountains for better feng shui, or carve my name into the moon just
because I could.
That realization sent a jolt of fear through me sharper than the time I’d
accidentally sent a meme to my boss instead of my friend. What if I
couldn’t control this? What if I lost myself in the darkness? What if I
became the magical equivalent of that friend who gets one sip of alcohol
and suddenly wants to fight everyone in the bar?
My panic broke the connection like a record scratch at a dance party.
The shadows retreated, leaving me gasping on my hands and knees in the
middle of the chamber, feeling like I’d just run a marathon while being
chased by bears. My entire body trembled with residual energy and
something that felt uncomfortably like withdrawal—the magical equivalent
of a sugar crash after demolishing an entire birthday cake.
“Okay,” I wheezed, my lungs burning like I’d just inhaled fire instead of
air. “Definitely saving that one for emergencies only. Or the apocalypse. Or
never again.”
As I struggled to my feet with all the grace of a newborn giraffe on ice,
I became aware of the state of the training chamber. Half the dummies were
destroyed—some sliced apart, others partially consumed by lingering
shadows like someone had taken bites out of them and decided they weren’t
tasty enough to finish. A section of wall had been transmuted into
something that looked like solid darkness, as if someone had cut a hole in
reality and forgotten to patch it up. The floor was cratered in several places,
and a significant chunk of ceiling had collapsed, raining debris like the
world’s most dangerous confetti.
“Redecorating, dark lord style,” I muttered, surveying the damage with
the dawning horror of someone who’s broken something expensive at a
friend’s house. “Azrael’s going to have an aneurysm. Or make me have
one.”
As if summoned by the thought (and knowing my luck, he probably had
some kind of “my master is destroying things” radar), a hesitant knock
came at the chamber doors. “My lord?” Azrael called, his voice managing
to sound both deferential and deeply concerned at the same time. “Is
everything proceeding as intended? There have been some… concerning
vibrations throughout the lower levels.”
I glanced at a training dummy that chose that moment to collapse into
dust like it had just remembered it was well past its expiration date.
“Everything’s fine!” I called back, trying to sound dignified rather than like
someone who’d just discovered they could accidentally level a building.
“Just reconnecting with my powers! Very successfully!”
There was a pause long enough for me to imagine Azrael counting to
ten in his head. “I see. The eastern tower gargoyles have… relocated
themselves to the kitchens. Would you like me to have them returned to
their proper positions?”
I winced. Apparently, my power testing had effects beyond this
chamber, like the magical equivalent of turning your music up too loud and
annoying the neighbors. “Yes, that would be great! Just normal dark lord
stuff happening in here!”
“Of course, my lord.” I could almost hear Azrael’s raised eyebrow
through the door, a skill he’d clearly perfected over centuries of dealing
with whatever the real Lucien had put him through. “The department heads
have assembled in the Grand Hall for your inspection, as we discussed.
Shall I inform them you will be delayed?”
Right—the meeting with the generals and other castle staff. The actual
running-a-kingdom part of being a dark lord that I’d been trying not to think
about.
 “No, no,” I replied, brushing shadow residue from my clothes like it
was just lint and not the physical manifestation of cosmic darkness. “I’ll be
right up. Just… finishing up here.”
“Very well, my lord. I shall await you at the entrance to guide you to the
Grand Hall.”
Once I was sure he was gone, I sank down onto a mostly intact bench,
exhausted but exhilarated, like I’d just gotten off the world’s most terrifying
roller coaster and immediately wanted to ride again. These powers were
nothing like pressing buttons in a game—they were wild, intuitive, and
responded as much to my emotions as my intentions. Using them felt like
speaking a language I somehow knew but had never practiced aloud, or like
remembering how to ride a bike if the bike was made of existential dread.
“Well, Beau,” I murmured to myself, creating a small swirl of darkness
above my palm just because I could, watching it dance like a miniature
galaxy of pure void, “at least being stuck in a demon realm comes with
some perks.”
The shadows danced between my fingers like living smoke, responding
to my thoughts with an eagerness that was both thrilling and unnerving. I
had a feeling I’d barely scratched the surface of what these abilities could
do, like opening the first page of a book only to realize it contained the
secrets of the universe.
Now I just had to figure out how to meet my department heads without
accidentally turning one of them into a shadow puddle if they annoyed me.
Business Administration 101 definitely hadn’t covered “magical impulse
control” in the leadership section. Though, to be fair, most corporate
executives probably would have loved the ability to literally disappear
problematic employees.
I stood, brushing myself off and taking a deep breath that did absolutely
nothing to calm my jangling nerves. Time to face my kingdom’s leadership
and pretend I had any idea what I was doing. At least now I knew I had the
power to back up my position—even if I was still figuring out how to use it
without destroying the castle. Fake it till you make it, or until you
accidentally transform the conference room into a void dimension.

OceanofPDF.com
 5

Lucien/Beau

I
followed Azrael through the winding corridors of my castle—my actual,
honest-to-goodness castle—trying not to gawk like a tourist who’d
stumbled into the royal palace. The hallways stretched on forever, tall
enough to accommodate giants and wide enough for a parade of elephants.
Everything was carved from gleaming obsidian that somehow managed to
be both pitch-black and sparkly at the same time, like the world’s most
gothic jewelry box had exploded and formed walls.
The tapestries lining the walls depicted various scenes of conquest and
battle, though most were faded and dusty enough to qualify as
archaeological finds. One showed what I assumed was me (or at least
Lucien-me) standing atop a mountain of corpses, looking dramatically into
the distance while lightning crackled around my perfectly coiffed hair. Past-
me apparently had a flair for the theatrical that would make professional
actors jealous.
“This place is massive,” I said, before catching myself. “I mean… my
domain is… impressively scaled.”
Azrael’s eyebrow twitched slightly. “Indeed, my lord. The Dark Citadel
contains over two hundred chambers, seventeen towers, twelve dungeons,
and the Pit of Eternal Screaming, which I had renovated into a wine cellar
during your absence.”
“Good call on the wine cellar.” I nodded. “Eternal screaming probably
gets old after the first century or so.”
 “Quite,” Azrael agreed, with the faintest hint of what might have been
humor. “The acoustics, however, proved excellent for proper wine storage.”
We passed what seemed like dozens of servants, each more demonic
than the last. Some had too many limbs, others not enough. Some floated
rather than walked, while others scuttled along the ceiling like oversized
spiders wearing butler uniforms. Every single one dropped whatever they
were doing—sometimes literally, with an expensive-sounding crash—to
press themselves against the wall and bow so deeply their foreheads
practically touched the floor.
“Do they always do that?” I whispered to Azrael. “The whole forehead-
to-floor thing? Seems like an injury waiting to happen.”
“They show proper deference to their sovereign,” Azrael replied.
“Though in the past, many would simply flee at your approach, fearing
your… unpredictable moods.”
Great. So I’d been the boss from hell. Literally.
After my destructive training session, Azrael had insisted I change into
something “befitting a dark lord’s station” for meeting the generals. Black
leather pants that were surprisingly flexible, a silk shirt in deep midnight
blue, and a cape that somehow managed to billow dramatically despite the
lack of wind indoors. The boots were the real winner though—comfortable
enough for walking but with enough metal accents to make satisfying clicks
on the stone floors.
I’d spent about fifteen minutes practicing my cape-swishing in front of
the mirror before we left my chambers. Not that I’d admit that to anyone,
especially Mr. Perfect Butler, who probably emerged from the womb
(demon egg? shadow portal?) already knowing how to make a cape billow
menacingly.
“The castle staff awaits your inspection in the Grand Hall, my lord,”
Azrael informed me, his perfect posture making me instinctively straighten
my own slouching shoulders. “Those who remained loyal during your…
absence.”
“Those who remained?” I asked. “How many left?”
“Nearly half the original staff,” Azrael replied, his tone neutral but his
eyes flashing crimson briefly. “The weak and the faithless. They fled when
resources grew scarce and rumors spread that you would never return.”
Great. Employee retention issues right off the bat. My business
administration degree was finally relevant, though I doubted Professor
Geller had “Managing a Demonic Workforce” in mind when she made us
memorize Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Did demons even have needs
beyond “souls to consume” and “blood to bathe in”?
“And those who stayed?”
“The most loyal. The most devoted.” A hint of pride crept into Azrael’s
voice. “I ensured it.”
The way he said “ensured it” made me suspect his employee
termination process involved actual termination. Of the permanent variety.
We reached a set of massive doors carved with intricate scenes of battle
and conquest. They were easily twenty feet tall and looked heavy enough to
crush a small car. Two armor-clad demons stood guard, their faces hidden
behind helmets shaped like snarling beasts. When they saw us approaching,
they snapped to attention so quickly I heard their armor clank.
“THE DARK LORD APPROACHES!” one bellowed, his voice echoing
down the hallway with enough force to rattle the nearby suits of armor.
The doors swung open, apparently of their own accord, and I was hit
with a wave of noise—a collective gasp followed by absolute silence. I
stepped into the Grand Hall, trying to project confidence despite the
hundreds of eyes now fixed on me.
The hall was enormous, with vaulted ceilings that disappeared into
shadow and enough space to host three simultaneous basketball
tournaments with room left over for concession stands. Massive chandeliers
hung from chains thick as my arm, each holding hundreds of black candles
that burned with eerie blue flames. The floor was polished obsidian inlaid
with silver runes that pulsed faintly with each step I took.
Demons of all shapes and sizes lined the walls, arranged in what
appeared to be departmental groups. Some had horns, others scales; some
floated slightly above the ground while others stood on too many legs. I
spotted one that seemed to be made entirely of teeth arranged in a vaguely
humanoid shape and another that was just a cloud of glowing smoke
wearing a bow tie. The only thing they had in common was their
expression: a mixture of awe, fear, and desperate hope.
Azrael stepped forward. “Kneel before Dark Lord Lucien, ruler of
Iferona, master of shadows, sovereign of the eternal night!”
As one, the assembled staff dropped to their knees, heads bowed. The
sound was like a thunderclap, hundreds of bodies hitting the stone floor
simultaneously. I half expected the chandeliers to come crashing down.
 “Um, rise,” I said, then cleared my throat and tried again with more
authority. “RISE, my loyal subjects.”
They stood, still keeping their eyes respectfully lowered. I noticed some
were trembling slightly. Whether from fear or excitement, I couldn’t tell,
but neither option made me particularly comfortable.
“I am… pleased to see you all again,” I began, winging it completely.
Public speaking had never been my forte—I’d nearly passed out during my
college presentation on supply chain management. “Your loyalty during my
absence will be remembered and rewarded.”
A murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd. Apparently, “rewards”
weren’t a common part of the dark lord management style. More of a “not
being tortured is its own reward” approach, I guessed.
“Lord Lucien wishes to reacquaint himself with his court,” Azrael
announced. “Department heads, present yourselves.”
A massive figure stepped forward from the military section. He stood at
least eight feet tall, with obsidian skin that seemed to absorb light and
muscular arms, each bearing intricate battle scars.
“General Smashington, commander of your Shadow Legion, my lord,”
he rumbled, dropping to one knee with a floor-shaking thud. “My forces
await your command to crush your enemies and paint the battlefield with
their blood.”
I tried not to react to the name. I vaguely remembered creating this
character during an all-night gaming session, fueled by energy drinks and a
marathon of historical war documentaries. “Smashington” had seemed
hilarious at three a.m. when my brain was functioning on the intellectual
level of a sleep-deprived hamster.
“General,” I acknowledged with what I hoped was a regal nod. “Your…
battle enthusiasm is noted.”
He looked up, clearly surprised by my mild response. “Would you
prefer I bring you their hearts instead, my lord? Or perhaps their heads on
pikes? The skull collection in the eastern tower has room for expansion.”
“Let’s table the skull discussion for now,” I said quickly. “I’d like to
hear your assessment of our current military readiness.”
Smashington blinked his red eyes in confusion. “Assessment?”
“Yes. Strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, threats. The usual strategic
overview.”
 He straightened, seemingly on more comfortable ground. “The Shadow
Legion stands at five thousand strong, down from our peak of twenty
thousand. Our elite shadow-walkers remain unmatched in stealth
operations. Our weakness is primarily in siege equipment—much has fallen
into disrepair. Our opportunity lies in the heroes’ overconfidence; they
believe us weakened beyond recovery. Our threat is their alliance—they
have never before united against us.”
I nodded, genuinely impressed. “Succinct and comprehensive. Thank
you, General.”
Smashington looked stunned at being thanked, but before he could
respond, a wispy figure glided forward. She seemed to be made of living
shadow, her form occasionally dissolving into smoke before resolidifying.
Only her eyes remained constant—piercing silver orbs that seemed to see
through everything.
“Lady Shadowfax, Minister of Intelligence and Espionage, my dark
sovereign,” she said, her voice like silk sliding over steel. “My network of
spies extends throughout all neighboring realms. I collect secrets like others
collect trinkets.”
Again, I suppressed a smile at the name. I’d been going through a major
fantasy literature phase when I created her.
“And what secrets have you collected recently, Lady Shadowfax?”
Her silver eyes gleamed. “The heroes plan to move against us within the
month. They believe you still slumber, and they seek to destroy your
physical form before you can fully awaken. They have acquired an artifact
—the Sunstone Blade—which they believe can pierce your heart.”
Well, that was less than ideal. Like finding out your car insurance
expired the same day someone crashed into your parked vehicle.
“Do we know where this blade is now?”
“In the possession of the hero Valorian Lightheart. He keeps it on his
person at all times.”
Of course he did.
“Continue monitoring their movements,” I instructed. “I want to know
their plans before they do.”
Lady Shadowfax’s mouth twitched in what might have been a smile.
“As you wish, my lord.”
Next came a small imp-like demon wearing tiny spectacles perched on
his pointed nose. “Lord Taxman, Chancellor of the Treasury, at your
service, dread sovereign,” he announced with a deep bow that made his
spectacles slip down his nose. “The Department of Eternal Revenue awaits
your commands.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Lord Taxman?
Really, past-Beau? That was the best I could come up with? I might as well
have named him “Sir Accountant” or “Duke Spreadsheet.”
“Lord Taxman,” I acknowledged. “What is the state of our treasury?”
He pushed his spectacles back up with his calculator hand. “Dire but not
catastrophic, my lord. We have sufficient funds for basic operations for
approximately six months. Tax collection has been… challenging… with
the population decline. However, I have maintained meticulous records of
all who owe back taxes.” He patted the ledger lovingly. “With your
permission, I could send the Auditors of Doom to collect.”
“Let’s hold off on the Auditors of Doom for now,” I said. “I’d like to
review your books first. Perhaps there are efficiencies we can implement
before we resort to doom-auditing.”
Lord Taxman looked simultaneously disappointed and intrigued.
“Efficiencies, my lord? A novel concept. I shall prepare the ledgers for your
review.”
A demon with translucent skin stepped forward next. I could see
swirling patterns of magic moving beneath his skin like luminous tattoos,
constantly shifting and reforming. He wore elaborate robes covered in
mathematical formulas and made a series of complex hand gestures before
speaking.
“Magister Wiggles, Court Sorcerer and Arcane Advisor, at your service,
O Master of Darkness,” he announced, his voice surprisingly deep for
someone named ‘Wiggles.’ “The Disciples of the Eternal Wiggle stand
ready to unleash arcane devastation at your command.”
Oh God. Magister Wiggles. I remembered creating him during a sugar
high after consuming an entire package of licorice. The way his magic
swirled under his skin had reminded me of wiggly worms, and the name
had stuck. I was pretty sure I’d giggled for ten straight minutes while
designing his character model.
“Magister Wiggles,” I said, managing to keep my voice steady. “How
fare our magical defenses?”
He wiggled his fingers dramatically, creating small sparks of purple
energy. “The primary ward matrix remains functional, though at reduced
capacity. The secondary thaumaturgic barriers have degraded by
approximately forty-two point seven percent. The necro-arcane perimeter
alerts are still operational, which is how we detected the heroes’ recent
reconnaissance attempts.” He paused, looking hopeful. “With your return,
we could perform the Ritual of Eternal Darkness once more. It has been
three centuries since the sky burned black with your power.”
Everyone in the hall looked at me expectantly. Clearly, this Ritual of
Eternal Darkness was a big deal. Probably not something you could fake
your way through like that time I pretended to know how to salsa dance at
my cousin’s wedding.
“Perhaps once I’ve fully recovered my strength,” I hedged. “I wouldn’t
want to attempt such a powerful ritual prematurely.”
Magister Wiggles nodded sagely. “Most wise, my lord. The Sacred Art
of the Wiggle teaches patience in all things arcane.”
Next came a female demon with bark-like skin and flowers blooming
from her hair. She moved with surprising grace for someone who appeared
to be part tree.
“Mistress Pokey, Minister of Agriculture and Resources, my lord,” she
announced with a curtsy that made the flowers in her hair release a shower
of glowing pollen. “The Twilight Farmlands await your guidance.”
Mistress Pokey. I vaguely remembered thinking her thorn-covered arms
looked “pokey” and the name had amused me. I’d probably been sleep-
deprived at that point in my character creation marathon.
“What is the state of our food production?” I asked.
“Sufficient to prevent starvation, but only just,” she replied, her tone
practical. “The eternal twilight limits what crops will grow. We have
focused on shadow wheat, nightshade vegetables, and blood fruit orchards.
With additional labor and resources, we could increase yield by perhaps
thirty percent.”
“That will be a priority,” I said firmly. “A hungry population is an
unstable one.”
She looked surprised but pleased. “Indeed, my lord. I shall prepare
proposals for your review.”
The final department head was an amphibious demon with webbed
hands and feet, luminescent eyes, and skin that glistened with moisture. He
made a gurgling sound before speaking.
 “Duke Splashypants, Lord of the Murk Marshes, Master of the Moist
Dominion, at your service, dread sovereign,” he announced, his voice
bubbling as if speaking underwater. “The ancient water dynasty of House
Splashypants renews its eternal pledge to your darkness.”
I was going to murder past-Beau. Splashypants? Really? I must have
been absolutely hammered when I created this character. Probably during
that weekend when my roommate brought home that bottle of mystery
alcohol with the snake at the bottom.
“Duke Splashypants,” I acknowledged, somehow keeping a straight
face. “How fare the marshlands?”
“Rich in resources but dangerous to harvest, my liege,” he gurgled.
“The marshwalkers do what they can, but many have been lost to the deep
sinks and the predators that dwell within. With proper equipment and
training, we could triple our yield of alchemical ingredients and rare
minerals.”
“Prepare a proposal,” I instructed. “The marshes may be key to our
recovery.”
He bowed deeply, water dripping from his elaborate headdress. “The
Moist Dominion lives to serve.”
I managed not to snicker at “Moist Dominion,” which I considered a
personal victory of willpower. My inner twelve-year-old was having a field
day.
With the department heads introduced, Azrael stepped forward again.
“My lord, your personal companions have awaited your return most
eagerly. They are gathered in the courtyard, if you wish to greet them.”
“Of course,” I said, genuinely curious to see what my “companions”
were like. In the game, I’d designed several pets and mounts, each with
unique abilities.
We exited the Grand Hall through a different set of doors, these leading
to a long gallery lined with portraits. Each painting depicted a different
demon, all wearing elaborate formal attire and expressions of extreme
constipation—or extreme dignity, it was hard to tell the difference.
“The Ancestral Gallery,” Azrael explained. “The noble houses of
Iferona.”
I paused before one particularly stern-looking portrait. The demon had
six eyes arranged in a circle around his head and was holding what
appeared to be a severed human head.
 “Lord TBDlater the Disemboweler,” Azrael supplied. “A most loyal
vassal until his unfortunate… retirement.”
The way he said “retirement” made me suspect it involved something
sharp and permanent.
“And this one?” I asked, pointing to an empty frame with just a black
smudge where a face should be.
“Lord FixNameInEditing the Treacherous,” Azrael replied, his voice
suddenly cold. “His image was magically erased after his betrayal. As was
Lord FixNameInEditing himself.”
I suppressed a wince. Those were definitely placeholder names I’d
thrown in during a late-night gaming session, intending to come back and
give them proper demonic titles later. Apparently “later” never came, and
now these ridiculous names were part of Iferona’s noble history. Even
worse, the demons probably thought these were ancient, dignified titles
passed down through generations.
Also, mental note: don’t betray the Dark King. Bad for your
complexion. And existence.
We continued through the gallery and down a spiral staircase wide
enough for ten people to walk abreast. The stairs descended at least five
stories, passing landings that led to different wings of the castle.
“The eastern wing houses the libraries and arcane laboratories,” Azrael
informed me as we passed one landing. “The western wing contains the
armory and training grounds. The northern wing holds the guest chambers,
though they have been… underutilized… in recent centuries.”
“No surprise there,” I muttered. “Nothing says ‘welcome’ like a fortress
called the Dark Citadel.”
“The southern wing,” Azrael continued, ignoring my comment,
“contains the kitchens, servant quarters, and various storerooms. Below us
are the dungeons, the Chambers of Torment, and the wine cellar, as
previously mentioned.”
“Let’s skip the Chambers of Torment tour,” I suggested. “I’m not really
in a torment-y mood today.”
Azrael looked almost disappointed. “As you wish, my lord.”
As we walked, I noticed something strange. The servants we passed in
the corridors were behaving oddly. Instead of the fearful deference they’d
shown earlier, they seemed… hopeful? One small demon with dragonfly
wings actually smiled at me before catching herself and quickly looking
away.
When I absently said “good morning” to a servant polishing a suit of
armor, the poor thing nearly fainted from shock before breaking into a grin
so wide it seemed physically impossible for his face.
“The Dark Lord spoke to me,” I heard him whisper to another servant as
we passed. “He wished me a good morning! ME!”
Beside me, Azrael stiffened, his jaw clenching slightly.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Not at all, my lord,” he replied, his tone perfectly neutral despite the
muscle ticking in his cheek. “It is merely… unusual… for the Dark King to
acknowledge the lower servants.”
“Well, maybe it’s time for some changes around here,” I said. “A little
appreciation goes a long way toward building loyalty.”
Azrael’s expression remained carefully blank, but the temperature
around him dropped several degrees. I could practically see the frost
forming on his perfect butler uniform.
We emerged into a massive courtyard paved with black stone. In the
center was a fountain that sprayed what looked suspiciously like blood into
a basin carved with screaming faces. Charming décor choice, past-Beau.
Nothing says “relaxing garden feature” like perpetually screaming stone
people.
The courtyard was surrounded by high walls topped with gargoyles that
I could have sworn moved when I wasn’t looking directly at them. Beyond
the walls, I could see the towers of the Dark Citadel stretching toward the
perpetually twilight sky, their spires disappearing into low-hanging clouds.
The courtyard was empty except for four figures arranged in a
semicircle, each more bizarre than the last.
A massive serpentine dragon with scales black as the void coiled around
the fountain. One eye was milky white and blind, the other glowed purple.
When it saw me, the dragon reared up, spreading wings that momentarily
blocked out the twilight sky.
“Mr. Snuggles awaits your command, my lord,” Azrael announced
solemnly.
Mr. Snuggles. The name hit me like a sledgehammer of embarrassment.
I remembered creating this fearsome beast during a particularly emotional
episode of an animal rescue show, where they’d saved an abandoned kitten
that looked at the camera with one good eye.
The dragon lowered its massive head until it was level with mine, its
single good eye studying me intently. Then, to my astonishment, it made a
sound like a purr and gently butted its head against my chest with enough
force to nearly knock me over.
“He remembers you,” Azrael observed. “The bond between a dark lord
and his shadow dragon transcends time itself.”
I cautiously reached up to scratch behind what I hoped was the dragon’s
ear. Mr. Snuggles— God, that name—rumbled with pleasure, the sound
vibrating through the courtyard and causing small pebbles to bounce on the
ground.
“He can shrink to the size of a house cat if you wish,” Azrael informed
me. “Simply command it.”
“Um, Mr. Snuggles, shrink, please?” I tried.
The dragon’s form immediately began to contract, scales flowing like
liquid shadow until what remained was a cat-sized dragon that promptly
climbed up my leg and settled around my shoulders like a scaly scarf.
“Convenient,” I remarked, scratching under the miniature dragon’s chin.
It purred louder, small puffs of smoke escaping its nostrils. “No more
awkward ‘sorry, my dragon ate the neighbor’s car’ conversations.”
A three-headed hound approached next, each head a different shade of
black (how that was possible, I wasn’t sure). Smoke billowed constantly
from all three sets of nostrils, and its fur seemed to absorb light rather than
reflect it.
“Sir Fluffington III, your hellhound alpha,” Azrael introduced.
The left head looked playful, tongue lolling out. The middle head
appeared protective, eyes scanning the courtyard for threats. The right head
just looked grumpy, lips pulled back in a perpetual snarl.
“All three heads have different personalities,” Azrael explained. “They
are, technically, three separate entities sharing one body.”
“Hi there,” I said, holding out my hand cautiously.
The playful head immediately licked my palm, leaving a warm, tingling
sensation. The protective head sniffed my hand thoroughly before giving it
a gentle nudge. The grumpy head pretended to ignore me but eventually
gave my fingers a reluctant sniff.
“He can also change size,” Azrael added. “From war-hound to lapdog.”
 At that moment, a raven swooped down from one of the towers, its
wingspan easily six feet across. As it neared, I noticed its feathers shifted
between solid and shadow, and its eyes contained what looked like
miniature galaxies.
“Captain Sparkles, your nightmare raven,” Azrael announced.
The raven landed on my outstretched arm, surprisingly lightweight
despite its size.
“Captain Sparkles, Herald of Doom, reporting for duty, my liege,” the
raven announced in a surprisingly deep voice. “The aerial reconnaissance
division awaits your orders.”
I blinked in surprise. “You can talk.”
“Indeed, my lord. I can also mimic any voice I have heard, a skill most
useful for infiltration and psychological warfare.”
Captain Sparkles. I’d named it that because of its galaxy eyes, thinking
they looked “sparkly.” The military title had been added as a joke during a
late-night gaming session when everything seemed funnier than it actually
was.
The final companion slithered forward—a serpentine creature with
crystalline scales that radiated cold. It left a trail of frost on the stones as it
moved.
“Lord Popsicle of the Frozen Wastes,” Azrael introduced with perfect
seriousness.
The ice wyrm rose up, frost patterns forming in the air around it. “It is
ice to see you again, my lord,” it said, its voice tinkling like ice chimes.
“The court has been frozen in anticipation of your return.”
Oh God. The ice puns. I remembered programming those in during a
particularly punchy late-night session when I thought I was the wittiest
person alive. I’d been wrong. So, so wrong.
“Lord Popsicle can compress to bracelet size,” Azrael informed me.
“Many enemies have been surprised when your ‘jewelry’ suddenly
expanded into a thirty-foot ice wyrm.”
“That’s… handy,” I said, holding out my wrist.
Lord Popsicle immediately coiled around it, shrinking until it resembled
an ornate bracelet of living crystal. The cold was noticeable but not
uncomfortable.
I stood in the courtyard, a miniature dragon around my shoulders, a
talking raven on my arm, a three-headed hellhound at my feet, and an ice
wyrm around my wrist. This was definitely not how I’d expected my day to
go when I woke up in my crappy apartment that morning, dreading another
shift at the call center where the highlight would be if the vending machine
didn’t eat my money.
A small crowd of servants had gathered at the edges of the courtyard,
watching with undisguised fascination. When I glanced their way, they
immediately dropped their gazes, but not before I caught expressions of
wonder and—surprisingly—hope.
“Why are they looking at me like that?” I asked Azrael quietly.
“They are not accustomed to seeing you so… approachable,” he replied,
his tone carefully neutral. “The Dark Lord they remember was more…
distant.”
“Distant as in ‘busy with important dark lord business’ or distant as in
‘would set them on fire for looking at him wrong’?”
Azrael’s silence was answer enough.
Great. So I’d designed myself as a total tyrant in this game. No wonder
everyone seemed surprised when I thanked them or asked their opinion.
They were expecting me to demand their firstborn children as sacrifices, not
engage in constructive management practices.
“Things are going to be different now,” I said, loud enough for the
gathered servants to hear. “Iferona faces challenges that require all of us
working together. I expect loyalty and competence, but those who provide it
will find me… fair.”
The word ‘fair’ seemed to ripple through the crowd like a physical
force. Whispers broke out, and I caught snatches of “changed” and
“different” and “chance for us.”
Beside me, Azrael’s expression remained perfectly composed, but the
temperature around him dropped several degrees. The mini-dragon around
my shoulders hissed softly in his direction, picking up on something I
couldn’t perceive.
“Shall we continue the tour, my lord?” Azrael suggested, his voice
smooth as silk despite the frost forming on his perfect butler uniform.
“There is much more of the castle to see.”
As we walked away, Captain Sparkles leaned close to my ear. “The
butler is not pleased with your new approach, my liege,” the raven
whispered. “He preferred when your attention was… more exclusively
focused.”
 I glanced at Azrael’s rigid back as he led the way. Oh, so my demonic
butler apparently had some possessiveness issues. That was something to
file away for future reference—right under P for “Potentially Problematic”
and cross-referenced with M for “Might Murder Anyone Who Gets Too
Close To Me.”
For now, though, I had a kingdom to save, heroes to avoid, and
apparently, a whole menagerie of ridiculously named magical creatures to
reacquaint myself with.
Just another day in the life of a dark lord. I was almost starting to get
used to it.
Almost.

OceanofPDF.com
 6

Azrael

A
zrael did not sleep.
He hadn’t truly rested since Lord Lucien’s awakening three days
ago. Not that he required much sleep—a few hours every fortnight
sufficed for a demon of his caliber. But even those brief periods of
unconsciousness now seemed an unconscionable neglect of duty.
His lord was awake. Breathing. Living. After centuries of stillness,
Lucien moved through the castle with vibrant energy, asking questions,
issuing orders, learning to control his powers once more. The miracle
Azrael had waited for had finally arrived, and he would not waste a single
precious moment of it in sleep.
The midnight hour found him standing on the balcony outside his
private chambers, crimson eyes scanning the castle grounds. Frost formed
where his fingers touched the stone balustrade, spreading in delicate
patterns that matched his restless thoughts. The moon hung heavy and full,
bathing the Dark Citadel in silver light that reminded him of Lucien’s hair
spread across black silk pillows.
Everything reminded him of Lucien.
Azrael’s quarters adjoined his master’s—close enough to attend to any
need, yet separated by a wall that might as well have been an ocean. Three
nights now, he had stood at that connecting door, hand hovering over the
handle, imagining what lay beyond. Lucien, asleep. Vulnerable. Beautiful.
He never entered. The temptation was exquisite torture, but he would
not breach that boundary.
 Instead, he listened. With senses honed over millennia, Azrael could
detect the cadence of Lucien’s breathing through solid stone. The steady
rhythm confirmed his master slept peacefully, undisturbed by nightmares or
discomfort. Azrael had personally selected the mattress, testing dozens
before finding one with the perfect balance of firmness and yield. The
pillows contained feathers from shadow phoenixes, impossibly soft and
naturally cooling. The sheets—black silk from void spiders, smoother than
any fabric in the mortal realms—had been woven to his exact
specifications.
Nothing but perfection would touch Lord Lucien’s skin. Nothing but the
finest materials would cradle his body in slumber.
His own chambers reflected his nature—meticulously organized,
elegant without ostentation, every object aligned with mathematical
precision. A stark contrast to the hidden room beyond his bedroom,
accessible only through a door concealed behind a bookcase.
Azrael hesitated only briefly before entering this private sanctuary. The
space was small but exquisitely appointed, walls lined with glass cases
containing his most treasured possessions. A museum dedicated to a single
subject. A shrine to his obsession.
Lord Lucien Noir.
A strand of silver hair, preserved in crystal. A wineglass with the
impression of Lucien’s lips still visible on the rim. A glove his master had
worn once, three centuries ago, now kept under preservation spells to
maintain the lingering scent of his skin. Each item meticulously labeled
with the date of acquisition and the circumstances under which it had come
into his possession.
The centerpiece of the collection was a portrait—not the official one
that hung in the great hall, but a more intimate rendering. Lucien at rest,
eyes half-closed, lips curved in the hint of a smile. Azrael had
commissioned it secretly during the final year before his master’s long
slumber. The artist had not survived the completion of his masterpiece.
Some treasures were too precious to share.
“Three days,” Azrael murmured, touching the frame reverently. “He has
been returned to us for three days.”
The portrait offered no response, but Azrael hadn’t expected one. He
turned to a small writing desk in the corner, where a leather-bound journal
lay open. Taking up an elegant quill, he began to write in flowing script.
 Day 3 of Lord Lucien’s Awakening
His magical control improves rapidly. Today he successfully
manipulated shadow essence for seventeen minutes without
dissipation. His frustration at initial failures manifests as humor
rather than anger—an unexpected but not unpleasant change from
his former temperament.
He requested “coffee” again this morning. I have instructed the
kitchen to improve their shadow bean brew. The current iteration
appears insufficient.
He continues to use unusual phrases and references. I have begun
cataloging them for further study. The linguistic shifts may provide
insight into the nature of his transformation during the long sleep.
Physical changes remain consistent with my modifications. He has
not commented on the reduction in height or the refinement of his
musculature. The enhancements to his skin luminosity have exceeded
expectations—he practically glows in certain lights, particularly
when pleased or excited.
He asked about the history of the eastern provinces today. I provided
the official account only. He is not yet ready for certain truths.

Azrael paused, quill hovering over the page. The next observations were
more personal, less appropriate for even this private record. After a
moment’s hesitation, he continued.

He smiled directly at me today. Twice. The effect was… significant.

His new habit of casual physical contact remains disorienting. He
touched my arm while asking about the castle’s construction. A
deliberate gesture, not incidental. I maintained composure, though
the temperature in the room dropped noticeably.
The bathing ritual continues to present challenges to my self-control.
Tomorrow I must suggest a less transparent soap. The current
formula reveals too much through the water.
 He closed the journal with a snap, suddenly irritated by his own
sentimentality. This cataloging of minutiae was beneath him. He was Lord
Azrael, right hand of the Dark King, scourge of the eastern territories,
executioner of traitors. Not some moonstruck adolescent documenting each
smile and casual touch.
And yet.
And yet he had waited three centuries for those smiles. For those
touches. For the sound of Lucien’s voice addressing him directly rather than
in remembered echoes.
The clock on the mantle chimed three. In four hours, he would wake his
master with breakfast. Which meant he had exactly three hours and fifty-
eight minutes to prepare everything to perfection.
Azrael left his private sanctuary, locking it with both key and spell. The
night stretched before him, filled with purpose. Lucien’s clothing must be
selected, the bath prepared, the breakfast menu finalized. Every detail of the
coming day must be anticipated and arranged for his master’s comfort and
convenience.
Sleep was for lesser beings. Beings who didn’t have the privilege of
serving perfection incarnate.
Dawn had barely begun to stain the eastern sky when Azrael entered the
castle kitchens. The staff had learned quickly that their new schedule began
well before sunrise—those who hadn’t adapted had been replaced.
Efficiency required sacrifice. Usually someone else’s.
“The shadow bean brew,” Azrael announced without preamble,
materializing beside Head Chef 001 Ramsay with silent grace. “Has it been
modified as instructed?”
The corpulent demon nearly dropped the cleaver he was using to
dismember something with too many limbs to identify. “Y-yes, Lord
Azrael! We’ve adjusted the bitterness as you requested and added a hint of
sweetness from void honey.”
“Show me.”
A steaming cup was hastily presented. Azrael inspected it with narrowed
eyes, noting the richer color and thicker consistency. He did not drink—
food and beverages were largely unnecessary for his kind—but he could
evaluate quality through scent and appearance.
“Acceptable,” he pronounced after a moment’s consideration. “Prepare
a full pot for Lord Lucien’s breakfast, along with the usual selection of
pastries. And ensure the blood oranges are properly chilled this time.
Yesterday’s offering was room temperature.”
“Of course, Lord Azrael! Right away!” Head Chef 001 Ramsay’s
multiple eyes blinked in asynchronous panic as he barked orders to his
underlings.
Azrael watched the flurry of activity with cold satisfaction. Fear was an
excellent motivator. Love might be more powerful, but it was far more
difficult to instill on short notice.
He turned his attention to the breakfast spread being assembled. The
arrangement was almost artistic—pastries in shades of midnight blue and
deep purple, fruits cut with surgical precision, meats seared to perfection.
Each item had been selected for both aesthetic appeal and nutritional value.
Lord Lucien had displayed an unexpected appetite since his awakening,
consuming more food in three days than he had in the final year before his
slumber.
Azrael found this change oddly endearing. There was something deeply
satisfying about watching his master eat, about providing sustenance and
seeing it enjoyed. A primal pleasure in fulfilling such a basic need.
“The presentation is adequate,” he informed the head chef, who sagged
with relief. “Have it delivered to the antechamber of Lord Lucien’s quarters
at precisely seven. Not a minute earlier or later.”
“Yes, Lord Azrael!”
With breakfast arranged, Azrael moved on to his next task. The bathing
chamber required preparation—a duty he reserved exclusively for himself.
No other hands would touch the items that would, in turn, touch his
master’s skin.
The massive obsidian tub dominated the center of the bathing chamber,
its black surface gleaming in the soft light of blue-flamed lanterns. Azrael
moved around it with practiced efficiency, checking the temperature
controls, the water quality, the arrangement of oils and soaps on the nearby
table.
From an inner pocket of his tailcoat, he produced a small crystal vial
containing a liquid that shifted between midnight blue and deep purple. His
own creation—a cleansing oil infused with shadow essence and rare herbs
from the void realms. It would leave Lucien’s skin subtly luminous and his
hair like liquid silk. More importantly, it would mark him with Azrael’s
scent—an invisible claim that other demons would unconsciously recognize
and respect.
Three drops into the waiting water. No more, no less. The liquid
bloomed outward like ink, transforming the clear water into a swirling
galaxy of dark colors. Perfect.
Next came the towels—black, of course, and impossibly soft. He
arranged them with precise folds, placing them exactly where he would
need them during the bathing ritual. The temperature in the room was
adjusted to exact specifications—warm enough for comfort but cool enough
to make the hot water feel especially welcoming.
Everything in its place. Everything perfect for his master.
As he completed his preparations, Azrael allowed himself a moment of
anticipation. The bathing ritual was both exquisite torture and cherished
privilege. To be permitted such intimate service, to attend to his master’s
most personal needs—it was an honor beyond measure. That it also tested
the limits of his control was merely… incidental.
The clock on the wall showed quarter to seven. Time to select Lord
Lucien’s attire for the day.
The wardrobe was Azrael’s particular pride. He had maintained
Lucien’s clothing collection throughout the centuries, preserving the finest
pieces while updating the selection with new creations as styles evolved.
The result was an extensive collection that blended timeless elegance with
subtle modern influences.
For today, he selected an ensemble in deepest blue with silver accents—
colors that would complement Lucien’s coloring while projecting
appropriate authority. The fabric was light enough for comfort but
structured enough to enhance his master’s refined build. Each piece was
laid out on the dressing stand in the order it would be needed, from
undergarments (silk, of course) to the final touches of jewelry and
accessories.
With everything prepared, Azrael took his position outside Lucien’s
bedchamber door. The castle was beginning to stir around him, servants
moving through distant corridors, guards changing shifts at the outer walls.
But here, in this private wing, silence reigned. Sacred silence, soon to be
broken by the only voice that mattered.
Azrael checked his pocket watch. One minute to seven.
 He closed his eyes briefly, centering himself. When he opened them, his
expression was once again a mask of perfect composure—the ideal butler,
efficient and dignified. No hint of the desperate need that churned beneath
the surface. No trace of the possessive hunger that haunted his every
waking moment.
The watch ticked over to seven precisely. Azrael opened the door and
stepped into his master’s chamber.
“Good morning, my lord,” he said, his voice perfectly modulated
despite the way his heart quickened at the sight of Lucien’s sleeping form.
“I trust you slept well?”
Lord Lucien startled awake with an undignified yelp, clutching the
sheets to his chest like armor. His silver hair stood in delightful disarray,
and his eyes—those sapphire pools that Azrael could drown in willingly—
were wide with momentary panic.
“Holy mother of—” Lucien gasped, his voice rough with sleep. “Do you
have to materialize like that? Couldn’t you, I don’t know, knock? Or send a
text? Or maybe not watch me sleep like some supernatural stalker?”
Azrael permitted himself the faintest smile, carefully calibrated to
appear apologetic rather than amused. His master’s new manner of speech
continued to fascinate him—so different from the cold formality of before,
yet oddly charming in its directness.
“My apologies, my lord. I did not intend to startle you.” A lie, but a
small one. The brief moment when Lucien was off-balance, vulnerable,
unguarded—it was a treasure Azrael hoarded jealously. “Breakfast awaits in
the antechamber, and your bath has been prepared.”
Lucien ran a hand through his tousled hair, a gesture that sent an
inappropriate flare of heat through Azrael’s core. “Right. Bath. Food.
Morning routine of the damned. Got it.”
He threw back the covers and stood, seemingly unaware of how the thin
sleeping garment he wore clung to his form, revealing far more than it
concealed. Azrael’s gaze tracked the movement with predatory focus,
cataloging every detail—the elegant line of Lucien’s throat, the subtle
definition of muscle beneath pale skin, the way the fabric draped over his
hips.
Three hundred years of preservation had yielded perfection. His
modifications to Lucien’s form had exceeded even his exacting
expectations.
 “Would you prefer to eat first, my lord, or bathe?” Azrael asked, his
voice betraying nothing of the hunger that clawed at his insides.
“Food,” Lucien decided, stretching in a way that made the thin fabric
ride up, exposing a strip of skin at his waist. “I’m starving. Apparently,
being an evil overlord burns a lot of calories. Who knew?”
“Indeed, my lord.” Azrael moved to the antechamber, opening the door
with a flourish to reveal the breakfast spread. “The kitchen has prepared a
selection based on your preferences from previous days.”
Lucien’s eyes widened at the sight, genuine pleasure lighting his
features. “Now that’s what I call breakfast! You guys really know how to
feed a guy.”
He sat at the small table, immediately reaching for the steaming cup of
shadow bean brew. Azrael positioned himself precisely two steps behind
Lucien’s right shoulder—close enough to attend to any need, far enough to
maintain proper decorum. The perfect position to observe without being
observed in return.
From this vantage, Azrael could watch the elegant movement of
Lucien’s throat as he swallowed, could note the way his fingers curled
around the cup, could catalog each subtle expression of pleasure as he
tasted particularly satisfying morsels.
“This coffee is actually decent today,” Lucien commented, taking
another appreciative sip. “Still not Starbucks, but definitely an improvement
over yesterday’s attempt at liquid torture.”
“I instructed the kitchen to modify the recipe,” Azrael replied,
permitting himself a small glow of satisfaction. He had pleased his master.
“If it remains insufficient, further adjustments can be made.”
“No, this is good. Really good, actually.” Lucien turned to flash him a
smile—a genuine, warm expression that sent an electric current down
Azrael’s spine. “Thanks for taking care of that.”
Such simple gratitude should not affect him so profoundly. And yet
Azrael was momentarily speechless, his carefully constructed responses
deserting him in the face of that unguarded smile. How many centuries had
he waited to see Lucien’s lips curve in pleasure again? How many nights
had he replayed the memory of that rare expression, hoarding it like a miser
with his gold?
“It is my pleasure to serve, my lord,” he finally managed, the formal
response automatic while his mind struggled to regain equilibrium.
 Lucien turned back to his meal, seemingly unaware of the momentary
crack in Azrael’s perfect facade. “So what’s on the agenda today? More
magical training? Another thrilling meeting with the department heads? Tax
review with Lord Taxman who, by the way, takes his job way too
seriously?”
“You have requested continued instruction in shadow manipulation this
morning,” Azrael confirmed, grateful for the return to practical matters.
“Following that, Lady Shadowfax has requested an audience to discuss
intelligence reports from the eastern border.”
“Ah yes, my daily dose of ‘everything is terrible but we’re pretending
it’s fine.’” Lucien sighed, reaching for a pastry filled with void berries. “At
least the food’s good.”
Azrael watched as Lucien bit into the pastry, a drop of dark juice
escaping to trail down his chin. The urge to lean forward, to catch that
droplet with his thumb—or perhaps his tongue—was nearly overwhelming.
His fingers twitched at his side before he forced them into stillness.
“Your bath awaits when you have finished, my lord,” he said instead,
his voice perfectly steady despite the heat pooling in his abdomen. “The
water has been prepared with the shadow essence you found beneficial
yesterday.”
“The magical bubble bath that makes me tingle in places I didn’t know
could tingle,” Lucien muttered, though without real annoyance. “Fine. But
I’m bringing this pastry with me. Multitasking at its finest—getting clean
while getting crumbs everywhere.”
Twenty minutes later, having consumed a breakfast that would have
satisfied three demons, Lucien followed Azrael to the bathing chamber. The
ritual that followed was both familiar and novel—a dance they had
performed for three days now, yet one that felt new each time.
“Wow, the water’s all… galaxy-like today,” Lucien said, eyeing the
swirling darkness in the massive tub. “Are you sure that’s not going to turn
me purple or give me an extra limb or something?”
“The shadow essence is perfectly calibrated to your magical signature,
my lord,” Azrael assured him, moving to the side table to arrange the
bathing implements. “It will merely enhance your natural abilities and
restore any depleted energy.”
“If you say so,” Lucien shrugged, then—with the casual immodesty that
continued to test Azrael’s control—dropped his sleeping garment and
stepped into the tub.
Azrael kept his gaze averted, though every fiber of his being strained to
look. The brief glimpse he allowed himself—pale skin, elegant lines, the
perfect proportions he had so carefully maintained—was seared into his
memory to be revisited later, in private.
The soft sigh of pleasure Lucien released as he sank into the water was
almost Azrael’s undoing. The sound bypassed all rational thought, striking
directly at the most primitive part of his nature. His nails lengthened
momentarily into claws before he forced them back to human appearance.
“This feels amazing,” Lucien murmured, eyes closed as he leaned back
against the tub’s edge. “Like being massaged from the inside out.”
“The essence responds to your innate darkness,” Azrael explained, his
voice remarkably steady as he approached with bathing cloths and oils. “It
recognizes its master.”
Lucien opened one eye to peer at him. “Master of darkness, that’s me.
Though lately it feels more like darkness is mastering me. Yesterday I
accidentally turned a potted plant inside out. Poor thing looked like it had
been run through a demonic garbage disposal.”
“Your control improves daily,” Azrael assured him, kneeling beside the
tub. “May I assist with your hair, my lord?”
This was the moment he both dreaded and anticipated—the ritual that
required touch, that demanded intimate service, that tested the boundaries
of his control most severely.
“Sure,” Lucien agreed with a casual wave, apparently oblivious to the
effect he had on his butler. “You’re weirdly good at it. Did you take a class
in hair washing or something? ‘Advanced Shampooing for the Discerning
Demon Butler’?”
“I have had centuries to perfect my technique, my lord,” Azrael replied,
pouring shadow-infused oil into his palm. The scent rose between them—
midnight blooms and void spices, with an undertone of something darkly
sweet. “Your satisfaction is my highest priority.”
He moved behind Lucien, positioned at the head of the tub where he
could work without… complications. Even so, the moment his fingers slid
into that silver hair, Azrael had to suppress a shudder of pleasure. The silken
strands wound around his fingers like living things, responding to his touch
as if eager for it.
 “That feels ridiculously good.” Lucien sighed, his head tilting back into
Azrael’s hands. “Seriously, if the whole ‘intimidating demon butler’ thing
doesn’t work out, you could make a fortune as a masseuse.”
Azrael’s fingers worked with practiced precision, applying pressure in
patterns designed to both cleanse and stimulate magical pathways. Each
touch was clinical, efficient—or would have been, if not for the way his
pulse quickened when Lucien made those small sounds of pleasure, if not
for the heat that pooled low in his abdomen when his master leaned
trustingly into his hands.
“The essence must be applied to key energy points for maximum
efficacy,” Azrael explained, allowing his hands to move from Lucien’s hair
to his shoulders. The contact with bare skin sent electricity through his
fingertips, a sensation he masked with practiced indifference. “If I may?”
“Go for it,” Lucien agreed, eyes still closed. “At this point, my dignity
is a ship that sailed so long ago it’s probably discovered new continents.”
Permission granted, Azrael allowed his hands to trace patterns across
Lucien’s shoulder blades, spreading the essence with firm, confident
strokes. Each touch was a privilege, a torment, a test of his resolve. His
fingers mapped the contours of muscle and bone, committing every detail to
memory while maintaining the facade of professional service.
“The essence purifies as it energizes,” he explained, his voice betraying
nothing of the hunger that gnawed at him. “It removes impurities while
restoring magical pathways.”
“It feels like my brain is getting a deep tissue massage,” Lucien
murmured, his voice lower than usual, almost drowsy with pleasure.
“Everything’s all… sparkly.”
Azrael’s hands moved lower down Lucien’s spine, tracing the elegant
curve with reverent precision. The water’s darkness concealed his master’s
body from view, but touch revealed everything—the subtle strength, the
perfect proportions, the warmth that Azrael had preserved through centuries
of careful maintenance.
“You’ve got good hands,” Lucien said suddenly, the casual compliment
striking Azrael like a physical blow. Then, as if realizing the potential
implications, his master added hastily, “I mean—for this. For hair. Hair
washing. You’re good at hair washing. A real professional hair… washer.
Person.”
 The flustered clarification was unexpectedly charming. Azrael allowed
himself a small smile, hidden from Lucien’s view. “I have had centuries to
perfect my technique, my lord,” he replied, resuming his ministrations.
“Your satisfaction is my highest priority.”
The double meaning in his words was intentional—a small indulgence,
a private acknowledgment of the desire he kept so carefully contained.
Lucien would hear only the dutiful butler’s response. Only Azrael would
know the deeper truth behind it.
“Well, mission accomplished,” Lucien said, his voice slightly unsteady.
“Hair officially clean. Gold star for you. A-plus bathing assistance.”
“The process is not yet complete, my lord,” Azrael informed him, his
hands returning to Lucien’s shoulders. “The essence must be applied to key
energy points for maximum efficacy.”
Before Lucien could object, Azrael’s fingers were tracing patterns
across his shoulder blades again, spreading the essence with firm, confident
strokes. Each touch sent fresh waves of energy cascading through Lucien,
visible in the subtle glow that emanated from beneath his skin.
“That’s enough essence application,” Lucien said firmly, reaching for a
nearby washcloth. “I’m feeling sufficiently… whatever this is supposed to
do.”
Azrael withdrew his hands with what felt like physical pain, the loss of
contact an acute deprivation. “As you wish, my lord. Though the full
benefits of the treatment require more thorough application.”
“Maybe next time,” Lucien replied, submerging himself briefly to rinse
his hair. “I think I’m glowing enough for one day.”
Azrael noted with satisfaction how the essence had already begun to
enhance his master’s natural luminosity, the subtle glow beneath his skin
that marked him as something beyond mere mortal. Each day, the
treatments brought Lucien closer to his full glory—whether he realized it or
not.
Lucien finished washing quickly, then stood and reached for a towel.
Azrael turned away, providing the illusion of privacy while his peripheral
vision—considerably more advanced than a human’s—cataloged every
detail. The water streaming down pale skin. The elegant line of spine and
shoulder. The subtle glow of shadow essence absorbed into flesh.
Mine.
 The thought arose unbidden, possessive and primal. Azrael banished it
immediately, focusing instead on retrieving the robe he had prepared. Black
silk lined with silver, designed to complement Lucien’s coloring while
providing comfort after the bath.
“Allow me, my lord,” he said, holding the robe open as Lucien secured
a towel around his waist.
“Thanks,” Lucien murmured, slipping his arms into the sleeves.
As Azrael settled the robe onto his shoulders, his fingers brushed
against the nape of Lucien’s neck—a touch that could have been accidental
but wasn’t. The contact sent a jolt through him, a sharp pleasure that
bordered on pain.
“The shadow essence has enhanced your natural radiance,” he said, his
voice carefully neutral despite the heat coursing through him. His gaze
traveled over Lucien once more, noting the subtle glow that emanated from
beneath his skin. “The citizens will be most impressed when you begin
public appearances.”
“Let’s hope they’re too impressed to notice that I have no idea what I’m
doing,” Lucien muttered, belting the robe securely. “My entire qualification
for this job is ‘died heroically and woke up here.’ Not exactly management
material.”
The casual reference to death—to a life before awakening—sent a chill
through Azrael. These strange comments continued to disturb him, hinting
at something he couldn’t quite grasp. A transformation more profound than
physical changes. But now was not the time to press for explanations.
“Your chambers have been prepared for dressing, my lord,” he said
instead, gesturing toward the door. “I have selected attire appropriate for
today’s activities.”
As they moved from the bathing chamber to the dressing room, Azrael
permitted himself a moment of pure satisfaction. His lord was awake.
Clean. Refreshed. Glowing with the essence Azrael had personally applied.
Wrapped in garments Azrael had selected. Soon to be dressed in clothing
Azrael would fasten with his own hands.
These intimacies, these small possessions, would have to suffice. For
now.
The day stretched before them, filled with duties and obligations.
Training sessions. Meetings with department heads. The slow, painstaking
process of rebuilding a kingdom fallen into disrepair during Lucien’s long
absence.
But for these precious morning hours, Lucien belonged to Azrael alone.
His to serve. His to attend. His to touch under the guise of duty.
Mine.
If only in these small, stolen moments.

OceanofPDF.com
 7

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.”
“So this is basically the tutorial version of the guy who wants to stab
me. Fantastic.”
The first construct lunged at me, and something extraordinary
happened. As it attacked, images flashed through my mind—not my
memories of dying in a call center while fantasizing about tacos, but
Lucien’s. I suddenly knew this training exercise, had performed it hundreds
of times over centuries. My body remembered the optimal response pattern,
the most efficient way to dispatch these particular constructs.
At the same time, I recognized the scenario from the game—a mid-level
training quest called “The Circle of Shadows” that I’d run countless times
to farm XP when I should have been studying for finals. My fingers
twitched, muscle memory from years of gaming trying to press buttons that
didn’t exist in this reality.
“Right trigger, X, X, left bumper, special move,” my brain helpfully
suggested as my body executed a perfect counterattack that would have
made the game developers weep with joy.
“Combo breaker!” I shouted as I dispatched the first construct, then
immediately winced at the gaming reference.
Azrael’s brow furrowed. “Combo… breaker? Is that a new battle cry,
my lord?”
“Ancient battle cry,” I improvised wildly. “From the, uh, northern
demon clans. Very traditional. They yell it when breaking an enemy’s attack
sequence. Fearsome warriors, those northern demons. Big fans of shouting
nonsense in combat.”
“I see,” Azrael replied in a tone that suggested he absolutely did not see
but was too polite to call his lord a terrible liar to his face. “Your knowledge
of obscure battle traditions is… impressive.”
The result was like having a professional driver take the wheel while
backseat me kept shouting unnecessary directions. My body moved with
Lucien’s practiced skill while my mind processed the familiar patterns from
hours of gameplay.
I parried the first construct’s attack and spun to face the second, my
blade leaving trails of shadow in its wake like the world’s most deadly
sparkler. Without conscious thought, I channeled power into the sword,
extending its reach with a blade of pure darkness that sliced through two
constructs simultaneously.
“Excellent form, my lord,” Azrael commented as I flowed between
opponents with increasing confidence. “Your technique against multiple
opponents has always been exemplary.”
“Thanks! I’ve been practicing in my dreams!” I quipped, narrowly
avoiding a shadow axe to the face. “Nothing says ‘restful sleep’ like
imaginary decapitation!”
The sensation was nothing like pressing X to not die. The weight of the
sword, the resistance as it connected with targets, the way shadow energy
responded to my emotions—it was like comparing a driving simulator to
actually doing donuts in a parking lot. One was pressing buttons to make
pretty pictures move; the other was a full-body, holy-crap-this-is-actually-
happening experience.
I shadow-stepped behind a construct, feeling the cool rush of darkness
envelop me like diving into a pool of midnight before I reformed, my blade
already swinging to remove its head. Another lunged from my left, and I
instinctively created a shadow shield that absorbed its attack before I
countered.
“Parry this, you filthy casual!” I shouted, decapitating the construct with
perhaps more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary.
Azrael’s eyebrow raised fractionally. “Filthy… casual?”
“Another northern battle cry,” I said quickly. “They’re very… creative
with their insults. Psychological warfare. Very effective.”
“Indeed,” Azrael murmured. “The northern clans seem to have
developed a most… unique combat vocabulary during your slumber.”
Within minutes, I’d dispatched all twelve constructs, ending in a
defensive stance with my shadow-enhanced blade at the ready. My
breathing was slightly elevated, but not from exertion—from the pure,
unadulterated glee of discovering I was basically a walking weapon of mass
destruction.
“Holy mother of gaming gods.” I laughed, dismissing the shadow
extension from my sword. “That was better than unlocking a legendary
achievement while simultaneously being told the pizza guy got the order
wrong and threw in free breadsticks!”
Azrael’s head tilted slightly, like a confused puppy encountering a new
sound. “Pizza… guy?”
I froze. Shit. “Uh, that’s northern demon slang for ‘enemy supply
courier.’ You know, because they… deliver… things. And sometimes they
get the order wrong and you get extra… supplies. It’s a very specific
metaphor.”
“I see,” Azrael replied in a tone that suggested he was mentally
compiling a list titled “Strange Things My Lord Has Said Since
Awakening.” “Your knowledge of regional dialectics is most impressive.”
“I’m a man of many talents,” I said, quickly changing the subject. “So,
how’d I do? Pass the ‘not going to get immediately murdered by heroes’
test?”
“Impressive,” Azrael said, something like pride gleaming in his eyes.
“You dispatched them three point seven seconds faster than your previous
record.”
I blinked. “I have a record? Do I get a trophy? Maybe a little shadow
plaque that says ‘Best Dummy Slayer, Third Century Running’?”
“You established several training benchmarks before your… absence,”
Azrael explained, diplomatically avoiding terms like “mysterious
disappearance” or “possible personality transplant.” “This particular
exercise was one of your favorites.”
That explained why it had felt so familiar—both from the game and
from Lucien’s muscle memory. The convergence of those two sets of
knowledge had created something new, a fighting style that combined
Lucien’s centuries of experience with my understanding of game mechanics
and inappropriately timed pop-culture references.
“It feels different than I remember,” I said carefully, testing how much I
could admit without raising suspicion. “More… immediate. Less like
watching myself fight and more like actually, you know, stabbing things.”
“After such an extended period of magical slumber, some sensory
adjustments are to be expected,” Azrael replied, buying my explanation
with suspicious ease. “Your connection to your physical form will
strengthen with practice.”
He approached, adjusting my grip on the sword slightly. “You favor
your right side more than you once did,” he said. “And your shadow
extensions manifest differently—more fluid, less structured.”
His hand lingered on mine for a moment longer than necessary, cool
fingers against my skin sending an unexpected jolt up my arm that had
nothing to do with shadow magic and everything to do with the fact that my
demon butler was, objectively speaking, hot enough to melt tungsten.
This had been happening more frequently over the past days—casual
touches that lasted just a beat too long, lingering glances when he thought I
wasn’t looking. During our morning routine, his hands would brush against
mine while helping me dress, or his fingers would trail along my shoulders
while adjusting my collar. Small moments of contact that seemed calculated
to drive me slowly insane.
When our eyes met, I caught a flicker of something in those crimson
depths—a heat that had nothing to do with combat training.
Well, well, well. Isn’t that interesting?
“Different how?” I asked, not stepping away from his proximity
because I’m not an idiot. “Like, ‘you’re doing it wrong’ different or ‘ooh,
that’s a spicy new technique’ different?”
Azrael seemed to realize he was still touching me and withdrew his
hand with practiced composure that couldn’t quite hide the reluctance
behind it. “Previously, your shadow constructs were precise, architectural—
perfect replicas of physical weapons. Now they appear more… organic.
Adaptive.”
“Is that bad? Because if I’m doing shadow magic wrong, that’s kind of
on-brand for me. I’ve never been great with instruction manuals.”
“Merely different,” he replied. “Perhaps even more effective.
Adaptability in combat is a significant advantage.”
He gestured to the training floor, where more shadow constructs formed
like the world’s most lethal flash mob. “Shall we continue? I believe you
were experimenting with combining Shadow Step with Dark Armory before
your… rest.”
The way he hesitated over explanations for my three-hundred-year
absence made me wonder exactly what Azrael thought had happened to his
master. Did he suspect I wasn’t the same Lucien he’d served? Or did he
simply attribute the changes to whatever magical coma I’d supposedly been
in? Either way, his diplomatic avoidance of the topic was Olympic-level
verbal gymnastics.
“Let’s try something different,” I suggested, banishing those worries for
later examination, preferably with alcohol. “You and me. Sparring match.”
Azrael’s eyebrows rose fractionally, the demon equivalent of a shocked
gasp. “My lord?”
“You’re the only one who can give me a real challenge,” I pointed out.
“The constructs are predictable. I need to test myself against someone who
can think and adapt. You know, someone who won’t fall for the ‘look
behind you’ trick three times in a row.”
A gleam of something like anticipation flashed in his eyes before his
butler mask slipped back into place faster than a politician backpedaling
after a hot mic incident. “If that is your wish, my lord. Though I should note
that my abilities, while considerable, are not equal to your own.”
“Then you’ll just have to get creative.” I grinned, dropping into a
fighting stance. “Don’t hold back. Think of it as a performance review with
swords.”
“As you command,” he replied, his formal tone belied by the predatory
grace with which he drew his own practice blade. If I didn’t know better,
I’d say he was actually looking forward to this.
What followed was possibly the most exhilarating twenty minutes of
my life—including that time I found twenty dollars in a coat I hadn’t worn
in a year. Azrael might have claimed to be weaker than me, but what he
lacked in raw power he made up for in skill and precision that would make
a Swiss watchmaker weep with envy. He moved like liquid shadow, each
strike perfectly calculated, each defense seamlessly flowing into
counterattack.
My body responded with equal skill, Lucien’s combat experience
guiding my movements while my brain provided helpful commentary like
“Holy shit!” and “Did I just do that?” When Azrael lunged, I parried. When
he feinted, I saw through it. We were perfectly matched in technique, a
deadly dance of blades and shadow that was equal parts terrifying and
exhilarating.
“Your footwork has improved,” I taunted as I dodged a particularly
elegant attack. “Been taking dance lessons while I was napping?”
“I have had three centuries to perfect my technique, my lord,” he
replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Though I admit, serving as your
butler has required more… dodging than dancing.”
The difference was in our power. When I channeled shadow energy into
my attacks, they carried force that Azrael had to work twice as hard to
counter. When I shadow-stepped behind him, he sensed it coming but
couldn’t match the speed. I was stronger, faster, my reserves of magic
deeper than his.
But he was cleverer. When direct confrontation failed, he changed
tactics, using the environment, creating distractions, forcing me to divide
my attention. It was like playing chess and fencing simultaneously while
someone shouted math problems at me.
“Your strategic mind remains sharp, my lord,” he commented after I
countered a particularly complex sequence of attacks. “Few could anticipate
that combination.”
“I’ve always been good at pattern recognition,” I replied, shadow-
stepping to avoid a low sweep of his blade that would have introduced my
ankles to a world of hurt. “It’s my superpower. Well, that and the actual
superpowers. And my amazing hair.”
I reformed behind him, my sword at his throat—only to find his own
blade positioned at my side, a mutual kill that would have made for a very
dramatic final scene in an action movie.
We froze in that position, both breathing harder than before, the contact
points of our blades charged with shadow energy that crackled between us
like the world’s most dangerous static electricity. This close, I could see
flecks of darker red in his irises, like garnets embedded in blood. I could
also smell his cologne, which was unfairly amazing—like midnight and
spice and expensive things I couldn’t afford in my previous life.
“A draw?” I suggested, not moving my blade. “Or are we going to stand
here until one of us gets a neck cramp? Because I should warn you, I’m
very stubborn.”
“So it would appear, my lord,” he replied, his voice lower than usual,
like he’d been gargling gravel in a sexy way. “Though in a real
confrontation, your superior power would eventually prevail.”
There was something in his tone—respect, certainly, but also something
else. Something that made the air between us feel charged with more than
just shadow magic. Something that made me suddenly very aware of how
close we were standing and how good he smelled and how his eyes kept
dropping to my mouth when he thought I wouldn’t notice.
I lowered my sword first, stepping back with a grin that I hoped
concealed whatever my face was trying to do in response to that look. “That
was fun. Way better than hitting static dummies. They never look
disappointed when you beat them.”
Azrael inclined his head, his perfect composure returning as he sheathed
his practice blade. “Combat against thinking opponents will always provide
superior training. Your skills have returned remarkably quickly, my lord.”
“It’s like riding a bike,” I said without thinking. “You never really forget
how to fall off and embarrass yourself in public.”
His head tilted slightly. “A… bike?”
Shit. Did they even have bicycles in this medieval fantasy realm? For all
I knew, the wheel was still cutting-edge technology here. “A metaphor,” I
recovered quickly. “From the northern provinces. They’re very…
metaphorical up there. Big on abstract concepts. Huge fans of similes.”
Azrael’s expression suggested he didn’t entirely believe this
explanation. “Indeed. Your body remembers what your conscious mind may
temporarily misplace.”
That was truer than he knew. Throughout our sparring match, fragments
of Lucien’s combat knowledge had surfaced in my mind—techniques I’d
never learned, opponents I’d never faced, victories I’d never won. It was
like having access to a combat database that downloaded information as I
needed it, except instead of “Error 404: Skill Not Found,” I got “Here’s
exactly how to disembowel someone with a spoon.”
 “What about combining abilities?” I asked, moving us to safer
conversational ground before I accidentally mentioned cars or smartphones.
“In the game—I mean, in my mind, I can see possibilities for using multiple
shadow skills simultaneously. Like shadow-stepping while also making
shadow constructs or setting things on fire with darkness while also looking
fabulous.”
If Azrael noticed my slip, he didn’t show it. “Such combinations were
indeed among your specialties, my lord. Your ability to layer shadow effects
created unique tactical advantages.”
He moved to the center of the training floor with the grace of someone
who definitely knows how to tango but pretends not to at office parties.
“Perhaps a demonstration? Attack me using whatever combination of
abilities you wish.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that? I might not have perfect
control yet.”
A small, confident smile curved his lips. “I have survived your training
sessions for centuries, my lord. I believe I can manage whatever creative
destruction you devise.”
That smile did something strange to my insides—a flutter that felt like
I’d swallowed a butterfly sanctuary. I pushed the feeling aside, focusing
instead on the challenge he’d presented, because apparently, I’m a sucker
for proving myself to impossibly attractive demon butlers.
Combinations. In the game, certain abilities could be chained together
for devastating effect. Shadow Step into Dark Armory was a basic one,
teleporting behind an enemy while simultaneously summoning a weapon.
But what about something more complex? Something that would really
make Azrael’s perfectly styled hair stand on end?
I closed my eyes briefly, letting instinct guide me while my brain
helpfully suggested, “Do the cool thing from level seventy-two where you
made all those shadow clones and the guild chat exploded with people
calling you a hacker!”
When I opened my eyes, I was already moving, shadow energy swirling
around me like living smoke with serious attitude problems.
First, I activated Void Perception, expanding my awareness to track
Azrael’s position with perfect precision. Then Shadow Step, but instead of a
single teleport, I fragmented into multiple shadow forms, each one partially
real, creating confusion about my true location like the world’s deadliest
shell game.
As the shadows converged, I channeled Abyssal Flames into my blade,
the dark fire extending its reach and destructive potential. The combined
effect was spectacular—multiple shadow versions of me attacking
simultaneously, each wielding a sword of black flame that made lightsabers
look like dollar store glow sticks.
“Surprise!” seven versions of me called out simultaneously, which was
both effective and deeply weird to experience from multiple perspectives at
once.
Azrael responded with impressive skill, identifying the real me among
the decoys and focusing his defense there. But he couldn’t counter all the
shadow duplicates, and one scored a glancing hit on his shoulder, the dark
fire leaving a smoldering mark on his training clothes.
I immediately dismissed the flames, concern replacing combat focus.
“Shit, are you okay? I didn’t mean to actually barbecue you. Medium-rare
butler was not on today’s menu.”
To my surprise, Azrael was smiling—a real smile, not his usual
controlled expression that looked like he was afraid his face might crack if
he showed too much emotion. “Perfectly fine, my lord. Abyssal Flames
require direct intent to cause serious harm. You were holding back.”
He touched the scorched fabric, which crumbled to ash under his fingers
but revealed unmarked skin beneath. “An impressive combination. Your
shadow fragmentation technique has evolved—previously, you could create
no more than three duplicates. I counted seven.”
“Lucky number,” I quipped, trying to hide how relieved I was that I
hadn’t accidentally turned my butler into demonic toast. “So that worked?
Because from my end it felt like trying to watch seven TVs at once while
also being on fire.”
“Exceedingly well,” he confirmed. “Though such complex
combinations drain magical reserves quickly. In prolonged combat, simpler
techniques often prove more sustainable.”
He approached, his movements carrying that predatory grace that
seemed to be his default setting. “Your power has grown during your
slumber, my lord. The combinations you once found challenging now come
naturally to you.”
 There was genuine admiration in his voice, and something else—a kind
of hunger that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the
way his eyes kept drifting over me like I was an all-you-can-eat buffet after
a famine. The look made my pulse quicken, a reaction I wasn’t entirely
prepared for because being attracted to your possibly homicidal demon
butler wasn’t covered in the So You’ve Been Transported to Another World
handbook.
“Well, I had a good teacher,” I said, suddenly aware of how close we
were standing. “You know what they say—behind every successful dark
lord is an impeccably dressed butler with throwing knives hidden in his
sleeves.”
“You honor me, my lord,” he replied softly. “Though I have merely
helped refine what was already exceptional.”
The air between us felt charged, like the moment before lightning
strikes or someone suggests karaoke at an office party. Part of me—a
growing, insistent part—wanted to close that distance, to discover what
would happen if I acted on the tension that had been building between us
since I’d opened my eyes to find him hovering over me like the world’s
most attractive harbinger of doom.
Instead, I cleared my throat, taking a step back because I’m apparently a
coward even with level ninety-nine shadow powers. “Same time tomorrow?
I want to work on those combinations some more. Maybe see if I can make
eight shadow clones. Go for a personal best.”
If Azrael was disappointed by my retreat, he didn’t show it. His perfect
butler mask slipped back into place as he bowed slightly. “Of course, my
lord. I am, as always, at your service.”
As he turned to leave, I called after him: “Azrael?”
He paused at the door. “Yes, my lord?”
“Thank you. Not just for the training, but for… being patient. With all
the changes. I know I’m probably not exactly what you expected after three
hundred years.”
Something softened in his expression—so briefly I almost missed it.
“Change is the nature of existence, my lord. Even for beings such as
ourselves.”
With that enigmatic comment, he was gone, leaving me alone with my
thoughts and the lingering sensation of shadow magic dancing across my
skin like caffeinated spiders.
 I created a small construct in my palm, watching it take the shape of a
sword before shifting into a flame, then a shield—forms responding to my
idle thoughts like the world’s most deadly fidget toy. The power felt natural
now, an extension of myself rather than a foreign tool.
“Well, Beau,” I murmured to myself, “at least if I’m stuck in a demon
lord’s body, it’s one that knows how to kick ass and look good doing it.
Definite upgrade from dying in a call center.”
The shadow in my palm formed a question mark before dissolving into
smoke. There were still so many mysteries—why I was here, what had
happened to the real Lucien, and what exactly was happening between me
and my increasingly intriguing butler who looked at me like I was a dessert
he was considering devouring.
But for now, I had shadow powers, combat skills, and a kingdom to
rebuild. The rest would have to wait.
I sighed, looking at the training room door. Tomorrow, I’d have to
venture beyond the castle walls, see the city for myself. No more hiding
behind paperwork and meetings. These were my people now, as weird as
that concept still felt, and they were suffering. If I was going to help them, I
needed to understand exactly what they were facing.
Just another day in the life of an accidental dark lord—now with added
sexual tension and the ability to create shadow duplicates. Definitely an
upgrade from customer service, where the only thing I duplicated was my
soul-crushing despair.

OceanofPDF.com
 8

Lucien/Beau

I
slept like garbage the night before my big city tour, which was entirely
predictable. My brain kept serving up nightmares featuring starving
demon children with accusing eyes, heroes with glowing swords pointed
at my chest, and that one recurring dream where I’m giving a presentation
but my PowerPoint is just pictures of tacos and I’m wearing nothing but a
cape. The last one had been a staple of my anxiety repertoire since college,
but the demonic children were a fresh new hell courtesy of my recent career
change from ‘underpaid customer service rep’ to ‘supernatural dictator.’
Every time I jolted awake, Mr. Snuggles would make a disgruntled
sound before scooting closer, his warm scaly body pressing against my side
like the world’s most determined living hot water bottle. When I finally
gave up on sleep around dawn, I lay there contemplating my existence and
the strange turns it had taken. I’d created this realm as a game, building it
pixel by pixel, naming characters while half-asleep or on a sugar high. And
now it was real—a living, breathing kingdom falling apart at the seams. My
digital playground had become my responsibility, and I wasn’t sure whether
to feel guilty for its state or terrified about fixing it.
Probably both. With a side order of ‘what the actual hell am I doing
here’ for dessert.
I must have dozed off eventually, because the next thing I knew, Azrael
was standing at the foot of my bed, a silent sentinel in perfect butler attire
despite the ungodly hour. Mr. Snuggles immediately raised his head from
where he’d been drooling slightly on my pillow, fixing Azrael with his
single purple eye in what I’d come to recognize as his ‘it’s too early for this
butler nonsense’ glare.
“Good morning, my lord,” he intoned, his voice cutting through my
sleep-fog like a chainsaw through butter. “I trust you slept well?”
I made an incoherent noise that fell somewhere between a groan and a
death rattle. Mr. Snuggles snorted in apparent agreement, stretching his
wings before climbing onto my chest and bumping his head affectionately
against my chin.
“Do you have some kind of supernatural ability that lets you know
exactly when I’m having a good dream so you can interrupt it? Or is ruining
my sleep just a hobby you’ve cultivated over the centuries?” I asked,
absently scratching behind Mr. Snuggles’ ear ridges. The dragon made a
pleased purring sound, pressing harder against my hand.
“I assure you, my lord, I possess no such power,” Azrael replied, though
the slight curve of his lips suggested otherwise. “Though I am curious what
constitutes a ‘good dream’ for the Dark Lord of Iferona.”
“Unlimited breadsticks and functional plumbing,” I muttered, dragging
myself to a sitting position as Mr. Snuggles scrambled to maintain his
balance, eventually settling around my shoulders like a living scarf. “The
true hallmarks of civilization. Maybe throw in a barista who doesn’t judge
me for ordering the equivalent of a liquid candy bar with coffee
undertones.”
Azrael glided to the windows and drew back the heavy curtains,
allowing the perpetual twilight of Iferona to seep into the room. The guy
moved like he was on wheels, all silent grace and deadly efficiency. If
butler Olympics existed, he’d sweep gold in every category, especially
“looking judgmental while performing mundane tasks.”
“You appear… fatigued, my lord,” he said, scanning me with those
unsettling crimson eyes as Mr. Snuggles nuzzled against my cheek, his
scales warm against my skin. “Perhaps we should postpone today’s city
inspection?”
I squinted at him suspiciously, one hand automatically rising to stroke
Mr. Snuggles’ head. “Nice try, but no. The tour happens today. I’ve put it
off long enough. Besides, if I postpone one more time, I’m pretty sure Lord
Taxman will bury me in so much paperwork they’ll need an archaeological
expedition to find my body.”
 “As you wish.” He bowed slightly. “Though I must insist on additional
preparations if you are to venture into the city while… compromised.”
“Compromised? I’m tired, not drunk. Though a mimosa wouldn’t be the
worst idea right now.” I stretched, feeling joints pop in a way that suggested
my new demonic body might be fancy, but it still wasn’t immune to
sleeping weird. Mr. Snuggles took the opportunity to slide down into my
lap, curling into a ball and looking up at me expectantly. “Or maybe just
mainline some caffeine directly into my veins.”
“Your magical reserves appear depleted,” Azrael said, studying me with
unsettling intensity. “A restorative bath with shadow essence would be
advisable.”
Great. Not only was I getting the usual bath-time awkwardness, but now
with bonus magical ingredients. Like taking a shower with your boss
watching wasn’t already weird enough—now we had to add magical bath
bombs to the mix.
“Is that really necessary? Can’t I just… I don’t know, drink a potion or
something? Maybe a stronger version of that shadow bean brew you’ve
been improving?” I was only half joking. At this point, I’d consider pretty
much any alternative to another session of “Azrael watches me bathe while
pretending not to.”
“Shadow essence must be absorbed through the skin for maximum
efficacy, my lord,” Azrael explained with the patience of someone talking to
a particularly dense child. “Today’s formulation is considerably stronger
than our previous sessions. It will restore your magical reserves and…
enhance your appearance for the public viewing.”
“Enhance my appearance?” I repeated. Mr. Snuggles perked up,
seemingly intrigued by this concept. “What’s wrong with how I look? Did I
grow a third eye in my sleep? Demon acne? Please tell me it’s not demon
acne.”
“Nothing is wrong, my lord,” Azrael assured me, though his tone
suggested otherwise. “But the Dark Lord must project power and vitality at
all times. The citizens must see you at your most… luminous.”
Luminous. Right. Because nothing says “fear my dark power” like
glowing like a demonic firefly. I was going for “terrifying overlord,” not
“human night-light.”
“Fine.” I sighed, throwing back the covers. Mr. Snuggles scrambled to
avoid being dislodged, claws catching briefly in the sheets before he leaped
to the floor with an indignant huff. “Let’s get this over with. But if you try
to make me ‘luminous’ enough to read by, we’re going to have words.”
Breakfast was a mercifully brief affair—I pushed around something that
resembled oatmeal but tasted faintly of licorice and regret, too anxious
about the upcoming tour to indulge my usual appetite. Mr. Snuggles,
however, had no such reservations. He perched on the edge of the table,
occasionally dipping his snout into my bowl when he thought I wasn’t
looking, then licking his lips with his tongue. When I caught him, he’d
make an innocent purring sound before nudging the spoon closer to me with
his nose, as if encouraging me to eat.
The shadow bean brew that had gradually improved sat untouched, my
stomach too knotted with anxiety to handle even that small comfort. As a
high-ranking demon—or at least inhabiting the body of one—I technically
didn’t need much food at all. According to Azrael, beings of our stature
could subsist largely on magical energies, which explained why he never
seemed to eat. But old human habits died hard, and normally I attacked
meals with the enthusiasm of someone who’d spent years surviving on call
center vending machines and discount ramen.
Azrael hovered nearby, his disapproving gaze tracking each morsel I
failed to consume like a disappointed parent counting vegetables left on a
child’s plate. Mr. Snuggles, sensing my lack of appetite, made a concerned
warble and pushed the bowl closer to me with his snout.
“You appear to have lost your appetite, my lord,” Azrael said with thinly
veiled concern. “Most unusual, given your customary… enthusiasm for
meals.”
“Hard to enjoy breakfast when my stomach is doing aerial acrobatics,” I
replied, pushing away the bowl. Mr. Snuggles immediately pounced on it,
lapping at the contents with gusto. “Besides, isn’t the whole ‘higher demons
don’t need food’ thing supposed to be one of my perks? Consider this me
finally embracing my demonic heritage.”
“While it is true that beings of your stature can subsist on minimal
physical sustenance,” Azrael conceded, watching as Mr. Snuggles cleaned
the bowl with impressive thoroughness, “you have always maintained that
regular meals are essential to your… particular magical constitution.”
Translation: Lucien had apparently been a foodie even before my
arrival. At least that was one trait we shared.
 “Food later. Bath now. City tour after,” I said firmly, standing up. Mr.
Snuggles looked up from the now-spotless bowl, his snout covered in dark
oatmeal. “That’s the schedule. My stomach can resume its regular
programming once we’re done inspecting whatever horror show awaits us
out there.”
Azrael nodded and led the way toward the bathroom. As we walked, Mr.
Snuggles trotted alongside us, occasionally weaving between my feet in a
way specifically designed to maximize my chances of face-planting onto
the stone floor.
“Someone’s clingy this morning,” I muttered, trying not to trip over
several pounds of affectionate dragon. Mr. Snuggles responded by rumbling
innocently and rubbing against my ankles.
“Mr. Snuggles appears particularly… attached today,” Azrael observed
with the careful neutrality of someone commenting on an ugly baby.
“Perhaps he senses your apprehension about the city tour.”
When we reached the bathroom door, Azrael made a subtle gesture with
his hand, creating a barely visible shimmer across the entrance. Mr.
Snuggles bounced off it with an indignant squeak, then sat back on his
haunches with an expression of profound betrayal. He pawed at the barrier,
making a series of increasingly pitiful sounds.
“Is the magical dragon-proofing really necessary?” I asked, watching as
Mr. Snuggles continued his dramatic performance, flopping onto his side
and staring at me with his single eye widened in what I could only describe
as draconic puppy dog eyes.
“After the incident, I believe precautions are warranted,” Azrael replied
diplomatically.
“It was just a little splashing,” I said, though even I had to admit that
“splashing” was a generous description for what had looked like a miniature
tsunami contained within four walls.
Mr. Snuggles flopped down dramatically outside the door as it closed,
his tail thumping against the floor in what I was learning was his version of
a sulk.
Inside the bathroom, I found the massive obsidian tub already filled
with what appeared to be liquid midnight, but darker and more intense than
previous days. The steam that rose from the surface carried an exotic scent
that reminded me of thunderstorms and dark chocolate, with an undertone
of something more potent.
 “Enhanced shadow essence,” Azrael explained, noticing my hesitation.
“Harvested from the deepest reaches of the void realms. Even rarer and
more potent than our previous formulations.”
“It’s not going to make me grow an extra head, is it?” I asked, eyeing
the dark liquid suspiciously. “Because I’ve only just figured out how to
style this one, and I don’t have the bandwidth for head number two right
now.”
“It will merely intensify your natural dark radiance, my lord,” Azrael
assured me. “Though I should warn you that the sensation will be
considerably more… intense than our previous sessions.”
That didn’t sound ominous at all.
I stripped and slipped into the tub without preamble. The moment the
liquid touched my skin, I gasped. This was nothing like the previous baths.
It felt like being submerged in carbonated silk—effervescent, cool yet
somehow warming, with a tingling sensation that danced across my skin
like static electricity, ten times more intense than before.
“Holy mother of—” I bit back a curse. “That’s… something else
entirely. Like taking a bath in Pop Rocks and lightning on steroids.”
“This particular essence is responding more strongly to your innate
darkness,” Azrael said, his gaze professionally neutral as he prepared
various bottles and cloths nearby. “It recognizes its master more readily
than the diluted versions we’ve been using.”
The tingling intensified, spreading through my body like wildfire but
without the burning. It felt like every cell was simultaneously being
massaged and charged with electricity. Not unpleasant, exactly, but
overwhelming—like stepping from a quiet room into a rock concert where
the bass is so loud you can feel it in your teeth.
“Is it supposed to feel like I’m being gently electrocuted by a very
considerate lightning bolt?” I asked, my voice embarrassingly breathless.
“The sensation varies based on one’s connection to the shadow realms,”
Azrael replied, moving behind the tub with a bottle of what I assumed was
magical shampoo. “For a being of your power, it should feel…
invigorating.”
Invigorating was one word for it. “Borderline inappropriate” might be
another, but I wasn’t about to share that observation with Azrael. Some
things are better kept private, especially when your demonic butler already
has boundary issues.
 Azrael poured something dark and shimmering into his palm. His
fingers slid into my hair, and a fresh wave of tingling sensation cascaded
down my scalp. It was like someone had replaced my brain with a sparkler
—all fizz and pop and bright sensations.
“Sweet merciful caffeine,” I muttered, my eyes falling closed despite
myself. “That feels like my brain is getting a deep tissue massage.”
“The essence purifies as it energizes,” Azrael explained, his voice closer
to my ear than I’d expected. “It removes impurities while restoring magical
pathways.”
He worked in slow, methodical circles, applying pressure in a way that
was somehow both clinical and intimate. The contradiction was very on-
brand for Azrael—everything he did existed in that uncanny valley between
professional service and possessive devotion. As his hands traced patterns
across my shoulder blades, spreading the essence with firm, confident
strokes, each touch sent fresh waves of tingling energy cascading through
me. I bit my lip to keep from making sounds that would definitely
complicate our professional relationship.
“The essence must be applied evenly,” Azrael explained, his hands
moving lower down my spine. “To ensure balanced restoration of your
magical reserves.”
“I’m pretty sure my magical reserves are plenty restored,” I said
quickly, my voice embarrassingly tight. “In fact, I’m feeling downright
overflowing with magic right now. Positively brimming. A veritable
fountain of arcane energy.”
“The process requires thoroughness, my lord,” Azrael insisted, though
he did move his hands back to safer territory. “Half measures would be
ineffective.”
I was starting to suspect that “thoroughness” was Azrael-speak for “I get
to touch you more,” but I couldn’t prove it, and honestly, I wasn’t entirely
sure I minded. Which was a whole other can of worms I wasn’t ready to
open.
“I think that’s enough essence application for one day,” I said firmly,
reaching for a nearby washcloth. “I’m feeling very restored. Super restored.
Maximum restoration achieved. I’m so restored I could probably power a
small city with my excess magic.”
Azrael withdrew his hands with what seemed like reluctance. “As you
wish, my lord. Though I should note that your luminosity is not yet at
optimal levels.”
“I don’t need to be optimal. I just need to be functional. Besides, too
much glowing and I’ll look like I swallowed a flashlight.”
I finished washing quickly, acutely aware of Azrael’s presence even
though he’d moved to a respectful distance. The shadow essence had left
my skin tingling pleasantly, and I could swear there was a subtle glow
emanating from beneath the surface—like I’d replaced my blood with
watered-down neon.
When I stood and reached for a towel, I caught Azrael’s gaze flickering
over me before quickly averting. It wasn’t the first time I’d noticed him
looking—he was my butler, after all, and seeing me naked was apparently
part of the job description—but there was something different in his
expression this time. Something… hungry.
“Something wrong?” I asked, wrapping the towel around my waist with
perhaps more haste than dignity.
“Not at all, my lord,” Azrael replied smoothly. “I was merely assessing
the effectiveness of the shadow essence. Your natural luminosity has been…
enhanced.”
“Enhanced. Great. Just what I always wanted—to glow in the dark. Very
practical for sneaking up on people.” I grabbed a second towel for my hair,
rubbing it vigorously. “Though I suppose it beats the alternative. What’s the
opposite of luminous? Dull? Dim? ‘The Dim Lord’ doesn’t exactly strike
fear into the hearts of my enemies.”
“You misunderstand, my lord,” Azrael said, stepping closer with a robe
held open for me. “The luminosity is not a common light. It is the
manifestation of your shadow power—darkness made visible. It inspires
both awe and terror in those who behold it.”
“Darkness made visible,” I repeated, slipping my arms into the robe.
“That’s either really profound or complete nonsense. I honestly can’t tell
which.”
As Azrael secured the robe around me, his hands lingered at my waist a
moment longer than necessary. “It is the mark of your divine right to rule,
my lord. A sign that sets you apart from lesser beings.”
I snorted. “Divine right to rule? Pretty sure I got this job through cosmic
clerical error, not divine appointment. The universe’s version of getting
someone else’s mail.”
 Azrael’s expression remained serious. “You underestimate your
significance, my lord. Your return was foretold. Your power is unmatched.
Your very existence shapes the fabric of this realm.”
“Yeah, well, my very existence is about to shape the fabric of some
leather pants, apparently,” I deflected, gesturing toward the dressing room.
“Let’s get this show on the road. The city isn’t going to inspect itself.”
When we opened the bathroom door, Mr. Snuggles was waiting exactly
where we’d left him, looking distinctly unimpressed with his forced exile.
He immediately wound around my ankles, making a series of chirping
sounds that somehow conveyed both “I missed you terribly” and “how dare
you bathe without me.”
“I think someone missed you, my lord,” Azrael observed dryly as Mr.
Snuggles continued his ankle-weaving routine all the way to the dressing
room.
“Appropriate” attire turned out to mean “enough leather to outfit a biker
gang.” The outfit Azrael had selected consisted of formfitting black leather
pants (of course), a silk shirt in deep crimson, and an elaborate long coat
with high collar and silver embroidery that somehow managed to be both
imposing and stylish. A sweeping cape fastened with silver clasps
completed the ensemble, along with boots that added a good inch to my
height.
Throughout the dressing process, Mr. Snuggles found increasingly
creative ways to insert himself into the proceedings—sitting on garments
before I could put them on, batting at the cape as Azrael tried to fasten it,
and generally making himself the center of attention. At one point, he
managed to get himself tangled in the cape, resulting in a frantic few
minutes of dragon extraction that left Azrael’s perfect composure slightly
ruffled.
“Is all this leather and dramatic drapery really necessary?” I asked as
Azrael knelt before me, fastening one of seemingly endless silver buckles
on my boots while Mr. Snuggles helpfully headbutted his elbow. “I’m
inspecting a city, not auditioning for Villain of the Year.”
“The Dark Lord must project power and authority,” Azrael replied, his
fingers working deftly at the buckle despite the dragon’s “assistance.”
“Your appearance is a statement of your dominion.”
As he looked up from his task, our eyes met unexpectedly. The crimson
of his irises had darkened to something deeper, like wine held to
candlelight. His gaze lingered for a heartbeat too long before dropping to
my lips, then quickly back to the buckle. The air between us suddenly felt
thick, charged with something I couldn’t name but could definitely feel. Mr.
Snuggles, sensing the tension, stopped his playful interference and looked
between us curiously, his head tilted.
“I think ‘I have glowing skin and can create shadow weapons with my
mind’ is statement enough,” I muttered, trying to ignore the warmth
spreading through my chest. Was it hot in here, or was it just the leather
pants? Definitely the leather pants.
Azrael rose in one fluid motion, his body momentarily close enough
that I caught his scent—something like midnight air and exotic spices, with
an undertone of something metallic and dangerous. He moved behind me to
adjust my cape, his cool fingers brushing the nape of my neck as he
fastened the clasp. Mr. Snuggles watched this interaction with unusual
intensity, his single purple eye narrowed slightly.
“The cape is essential to your image,” he said, his voice lower than
usual, breath ghosting against my ear. “Though I admit it may prove…
cumbersome for urban exploration.”
A shiver ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the
temperature. I cleared my throat, trying to focus on anything other than how
close he was standing or how his fingers seemed to linger at my collar. Mr.
Snuggles chose that moment to leap onto my shoulder, breaking the tension
as I had to adjust my balance to accommodate his weight.
“It’s going to get caught on everything,” I said, my voice
embarrassingly unsteady. I reached up to scratch under Mr. Snuggles’ chin,
grateful for the distraction. “Not exactly practical.”
“Practicality is unnecessary when one commands the shadows
themselves,” Azrael replied, moving to face me. His hands smoothed over
my shoulders, ostensibly adjusting the fabric but feeling more like a caress.
Mr. Snuggles made a low sound in his throat, not quite a growl but
definitely not his usual friendly purr. Our eyes met again, and this time
neither of us looked away immediately. Something electric passed between
us, a current of unspoken tension.
“And the sight of your cape billowing as you approach,” he continued,
his voice dropping to almost a whisper, “allows citizens time to prepare
proper obeisance.”
 His thumb brushed against my jawline, a touch so light it might have
been accidental—except for the way his eyes tracked the movement, pupils
dilating slightly. Mr. Snuggles leaned forward from my shoulder, inserting
his head between us with what I could only interpret as deliberate timing.
“Ah yes,” I managed, trying to sound casual despite my racing pulse.
“Wouldn’t want to catch anyone mid-whatever-the-demonic-equivalent-of-
a-sneeze-is.” I scratched behind Mr. Snuggles’ ear ridges, and he made a
pleased rumbling sound, pressing against my hand while keeping his eye on
Azrael.
Azrael’s lips curved into a subtle smile, drawing my attention to their
perfect shape. Had they always been so… defined? So impossible not to
stare at? I forced my gaze upward, only to find him watching me with an
intensity that made my skin tingle. Mr. Snuggles, perhaps sensing my
discomfort, nuzzled against my cheek, his scales warm against my skin.
Azrael reached for the collar of my coat, adjusting it with meticulous
precision. His knuckles brushed against my throat, and I couldn’t suppress a
small intake of breath. The contact sent a jolt through me like touching a
live wire, and from the slight widening of Azrael’s eyes, he’d felt it too. Mr.
Snuggles made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a huff.
“Your pulse is elevated, my lord,” he said, his fingers lingering at my
neck. “Are you… apprehensive about the tour?”
“Just… warming up to the outfit,” I replied, trying to sound normal and
probably failing spectacularly. “All this leather takes some getting used to.”
His hand moved to straighten my lapel, sliding down my chest with
deliberate slowness. “The material will conform to your body heat,” he
said, his eyes following the path of his hand. “Becoming like a second
skin.”
Was it my imagination, or did his voice drop half an octave on “second
skin”? The room suddenly felt several degrees warmer. Mr. Snuggles
shifted on my shoulder, his tail curling more tightly around my neck in what
felt strangely like a possessive gesture.
I shifted my weight, accidentally leaning into his space. Our chests
nearly touched, and I heard his breath catch ever so slightly. For a moment,
we stood frozen in that almost-embrace, the air between us crackling with
possibility. Mr. Snuggles looked between us with obvious interest, his head
tilted as if trying to understand the strange tension.
 “I should check the fit,” Azrael murmured, stepping back just enough to
run his hands down the sides of my coat, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles.
His touch was professional, but his eyes… his eyes told a different story.
“There,” he said finally, stepping back to assess his work. His gaze
traveled slowly from my boots to my face, lingering in ways that made heat
pool in my stomach. “You look… magnificent, my lord.”
The way he said “magnificent” made it sound like an entirely different
word—one that would make a romance novelist blush. His eyes met mine,
and for a moment, the perfect butler mask slipped, revealing something
hungry and possessive beneath. It was gone in an instant, but the afterimage
burned in my mind like a brand. Mr. Snuggles made a soft trilling sound,
breaking the moment.
“Thanks,” I managed, my voice rougher than I intended. I cleared my
throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure, one hand
automatically rising to stroke Mr. Snuggles’ head. “I feel like I should be
carrying a guitar or possibly a medieval flamethrower to complete the
look.”
“The shadow essence has enhanced your natural radiance,” Azrael said,
his gaze traveling over me once more in a way that felt almost physical, like
a tangible caress. “The citizens will be awed by your presence.”
“Let’s hope they’re too awed to notice that I have no idea what I’m
doing,” I muttered, turning to the mirror for one final check, partly to
escape the intensity of his gaze. My entire qualification for this job was
‘died heroically and woke up here.’ Not exactly management material. Mr.
Snuggles adjusted his position on my shoulder, seeming to pose alongside
me in the reflection.
The person looking back at me barely resembled the call center
employee who’d died saving a mother and child. This version of me—
Lucien—looked powerful, confident, otherworldly. The subtle glow from
the shadow essence made my skin luminous against the dark clothing, and
my eyes seemed to capture and reflect light like precious stones. Mr.
Snuggles completed the image, his scales gleaming with an iridescent sheen
in the dim light, his single purple eye bright with intelligence.
In the reflection, I watched Azrael approach, stopping behind me, close
enough I could feel the coolness radiating from his body. Our eyes met in
the mirror, and something unspoken passed between us—a current of
tension that had been building since I first opened my eyes in this world.
Mr. Snuggles watched this exchange with obvious interest, his gaze flicking
between our reflections.
“Ready to face your domain, my lord?” he asked, his voice a velvet
rumble that I could almost feel against my skin.
No. Not even slightly. I was about to tour a city I’d designed as a digital
playground, now transformed into a real place with real suffering. I was
responsible for these people—these demons—and I had no idea how to help
them. The weight of that responsibility felt heavier than all the leather
Azrael had strapped me into. Mr. Snuggles seemed to sense my anxiety,
pressing his head against my cheek in what felt like reassurance.
But I couldn’t say that. Not to Azrael, who looked at me like I hung the
moon and stars—probably literally, in this realm. Not to the citizens waiting
to see their returned Dark Lord. Not even to myself, because admitting how
terrified I was might make it impossible to function at all.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I said instead, squaring my shoulders and
attempting to look lordly rather than nauseated. Mr. Snuggles straightened
up on my shoulder, as if trying to match my posture. “Let’s go see what
three centuries of neglect looks like up close, shall we? I’m sure it’ll be a
delightful tour of urban decay and infrastructure failure.”
Azrael’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “I will be with you
every step of the way, my lord. Whatever you require, I am here to
provide.”
The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. For all his formality and
occasional creepiness, Azrael genuinely seemed to care—not just about
Lucien as a concept, but about me as a person. It was both comforting and
terrifying, this unwavering devotion. Mr. Snuggles purred softly, as if
adding his own pledge of support.
“I know,” I said, reaching up to stroke his head. “Thank you.”
As we left my chambers and headed toward the castle gates, I tried to
prepare myself for what lay ahead. I’d created this city, named its streets
and districts, designed its buildings and infrastructure. Now I would see it
as it truly was—not a digital construct but a living, breathing place filled
with people depending on me.
Mr. Snuggles, who had been riding on my shoulder, occasionally
nuzzled against my cheek or made soft encouraging sounds, as if sensing
my growing apprehension. His presence was oddly comforting, a warm
weight against my neck and shoulder that anchored me to the present
moment.
“It appears Mr. Snuggles has decided to join our expedition,” Azrael
said with a hint of resignation.
“Is that a problem?” I asked, reaching up to scratch under the dragon’s
chin. He responded with a rumble of pleasure that vibrated against my neck.
“Not at all, my lord. Though I should note that his presence may
actually be beneficial. Citizens tend to be… more forthcoming when they
see your bond with him.”
“You mean they’re terrified of getting eaten if they lie to me?”
“I would phrase it as ‘respectfully cautious,’ my lord.”
Mr. Snuggles nuzzled against my cheek, his scales warm against my
skin. Despite his fearsome reputation, he felt more like a comfort animal
than a weapon of mass destruction. Which, given what I was about to face,
wasn’t unwelcome.
“He’s currently the size of a housecat,” I pointed out.
“A housecat that can expand to the size of a building and breathe
shadow fire,” Azrael reminded me with the faintest hint of a smile.
“Appearances can be deceiving, my lord.”

OceanofPDF.com
 9

Lucien/Beau

I
’d thought the castle was bad, but the city was a whole new level of
medieval dystopia. We passed through the massive outer gates—which,
by the way, were decorated with actual skulls, because apparently
subtlety wasn’t in the dark lord design handbook—and entered what my
tour guides proudly called “The Midnight City.” I would have gone with
“Health Code Violation: The Experience.”
The streets were narrow, winding affairs paved with uneven black
cobblestones where they were paved at all. The rest was just packed dirt
mixed with something dark and sticky that I desperately hoped wasn’t what
it smelled like. Buildings leaned against each other like drunk college
students at two a.m., as if they’d collapse without their neighbor’s support.
Everything was built from the same black stone as the castle, though here it
was cracked, chipped, and covered in a film of grime.
“This is the main thoroughfare, my lord,” Azrael announced with
completely unwarranted pride. “The Avenue of Endless Torment.”
“Charming name,” I said. “Let me guess—the side streets are called
things like ‘Disembowelment Lane’ and ‘Screaming in Agony Boulevard’?”
“Indeed, my lord,” Azrael replied, missing my sarcasm entirely.
“Though Screaming in Agony Boulevard was renamed Shrieking in Agony
Boulevard after the Great Semantic Dispute of the fourteenth century. Three
noble houses were exterminated in the conflict.”
Over a synonym. Fantastic.
 We were attracting quite the crowd as we walked. Demons of all shapes
and sizes pressed against the buildings to let us pass, bowing so low I
worried some of the more fragile-looking ones might snap in half. Most
were humanoid, but with the usual demonic accessories—horns, tails, extra
limbs, skin in colors not found in human dermatology textbooks. They wore
simple clothing, mostly in dark colors, much of it patched and worn.
What struck me most was how thin they all looked. Not the aesthetic,
runway model kind of thin, but the “when’s the last time you had a proper
meal” kind of thin. Even the children—and yes, there were demon children,
which was both adorable and terrifying—had hollow cheeks and spindly
limbs.
A sickening wave of dismay crashed over me. This wasn’t how I’d
designed Iferona in the game. Sure, it had been a dark realm, but there had
been functioning markets, proper housing districts, even basic sanitation.
Three centuries of neglect had transformed what should have been a
functioning dark kingdom into… this. A wasteland of suffering.
Mr. Snuggles sensed my distress and nuzzled against my cheek, but
even his warmth couldn’t dispel the cold horror settling in my stomach.
“Azrael,” I said quietly, fighting to keep my voice steady, “what’s the
food situation here?”
“Most citizens receive one meal per day, my lord,” he replied with
clinical detachment. “The higher demons require less sustenance, of course,
as they can draw upon magical energies. The lower classes are more…
physically dependent.”
One meal a day. And from the way he said it, this wasn’t some recent
crisis—this was normal. This had become their reality while Lucien slept.
While I was busy living my ordinary life on Earth, completely unaware that
this world I’d created had become real and fallen into ruin.
A small demon child, no higher than my knee, peered out from behind
her mother’s skirts. Her eyes were too large for her gaunt face, and her skin
had an unhealthy gray pallor. When she noticed me looking, she ducked
back into hiding, trembling visibly.
These people were terrified of me. Of course they were—I was the Dark
Lord, their ruler, the one who’d been absent for centuries while they
suffered. Even if it wasn’t technically my fault, I couldn’t help feeling
responsible. I’d woken up in this body, in this role. That made their welfare
my problem now.
 “Who’s in charge of the city itself?” I asked, struggling to focus on
practical matters. “Is there a mayor or something?”
“Sir Formalitee oversees daily operations,” Azrael replied. “He awaits
your pleasure in the city square ahead.”
Sir Formalitee? I vaguely remembered creating that character during a
particularly mind-numbing staff meeting at work. My boss had been
droning on about “adhering to proper formalities in customer interactions,”
and I’d zoned out, designing a demon bureaucrat whose entire personality
was following procedures. I’d thought I was being clever with the spelling.
Now that clever joke was a living person who’d been managing a dying
city for who knows how long. The disconnect between my game design and
this grim reality was dizzying.
The city square was less of a square and more of an irregular polygon,
with a dried-up fountain in the center. A small platform had been erected
beside it, where a demon in an absurdly elaborate uniform stood waiting.
He had gray skin, small spectacles perched on a long nose, and a clipboard
with at least five hundred sheets of paper attached to it.
As we approached, he dropped to one knee, somehow managing to keep
his spine perfectly straight in the process. “Dark Lord Lucien! Sir
Formalitee, City Administrator, at your service! As per Protocol 7B, Section
12, Paragraph 3, I hereby formally welcome you to your Midnight City and
present myself for your inspection and/or disembowelment, whichever you
deem appropriate per Appendix J of the Dark Lordship Visitation
Guidelines!”
He said all this in one breath, which was impressive. Less impressive
was the implication that my standard greeting might include disemboweling
people. Was that what Lucien had been like before? Was that the kind of
ruler he’d been—someone who casually eviscerated city officials as a form
of greeting?
“Thank you, Sir Formalitee,” I replied, trying to keep the horror from
my voice. “I’ll pass on the disembowelment today. Please stand and tell me
about the state of the city.”
He rose, looking slightly disappointed about keeping his intestines. “Of
course, my lord. As required by Administrative Code 15.4, I have prepared
a seventeen-part presentation on the city’s current status, beginning with a
ninety-minute overview of tax collection procedures, followed by⁠—”
 “Perhaps a more condensed version,” I interrupted, seeing my life flash
before my eyes. “What are the biggest challenges facing the city right
now?”
Sir Formalitee blinked rapidly, as if the concept of summarizing
information was foreign to him. “Well, without the proper forms being filed
in triplicate, I couldn’t officially⁠—”
“Unofficially,” I pressed.
He glanced around nervously, then leaned slightly closer. “Food
shortages. Housing decay. Sanitation issues. And the, er, plumbing
situation.”
“Plumbing situation?”
“There isn’t any, my lord.”
Ah. That explained the smell.
But that didn’t make sense. I distinctly remembered including basic
infrastructure in my game design. Not modern plumbing, obviously, but at
least medieval-level sewage systems and water distribution. Something had
gone terribly wrong during those three centuries.
“Show me the worst areas,” I commanded, bracing myself for what I
knew would be a nightmare tour of a kingdom fallen into ruin.
Sir Formalitee looked like he might faint. “But my lord, the itinerary
clearly states that you are to be shown only the Noble Quarter and the
refurbished marketplace! As per Visitation Protocol⁠—”
“New protocol,” I interrupted. “Show me what needs fixing.”
Azrael stiffened beside me, the temperature dropping several degrees.
“My lord, perhaps it would be more appropriate to⁠—”
“The worst areas,” I repeated firmly. I needed to see exactly how bad
things had gotten. I needed to understand the full extent of the decline that
had happened in Lucien’s absence.
Sir Formalitee swallowed hard, then nodded. “As you command, Dark
Lord.”
The “worst areas” turned out to be about ninety percent of the city. We
walked through narrow alleys where waste ran in open gutters. Past housing
blocks where dozens of families were crammed into spaces meant for five.
Through markets where vendors sold items that looked more like props
from a horror movie than food—“screaming fungi,” “despair roots,” and
something called “sorrow meat” that I refused to further inquire about.
 The demons we passed stared at me with a mixture of terror and
desperate hope. Many had sores on their skin from what Sir Formalitee
delicately called “sanitation-related ailments.” Children with distended
bellies played with toys made from what appeared to be bones.
This wasn’t just a medieval slum crossed with a haunted house. This
was a kingdom in collapse. Whatever functioning systems had once existed
had clearly broken down long ago. Three centuries of absent leadership had
resulted in corruption, neglect, and suffering on a scale I could barely
comprehend.
“Who lives here?” I asked, gesturing to a particularly dilapidated block,
my voice thick with emotion I was struggling to control.
“Those would be Citizens 1200 through 1500, my lord,” Sir Formalitee
replied, consulting his clipboard.
Great. Apparently, the numbering system I’d used as a placeholder in
the game had become their actual identities. That explained the strange
looks I got when I smiled at a small demon child and asked her name.
“Citizen 1347, my lord!” she’d replied proudly, as if having a number
instead of a name was the greatest honor imaginable.
I’d intended to give them proper names eventually. It had been on my
to-do list for the game, but I’d never gotten around to it. And now these
children identified themselves by those numbers with pride. It was like
some dystopian nightmare I’d read about in high school, except this wasn’t
fiction anymore.
As we turned a corner, we came across a group of demons arguing
loudly in front of what appeared to be a bathhouse—though “bath” was
generous, as it was really just a large puddle in a stone basin.
“What’s happening here?” I asked.
Sir Formalitee hurried forward. “Vendor 42! Vendor 108! Cease this
disturbance immediately! The Dark Lord is present!”
The demons froze, then prostrated themselves on the ground. The sight
made my stomach turn. This fear, this absolute terror—this was what
Lucien’s rule had inspired.
“What’s the problem?” I asked, trying to sound gentle rather than
nauseated.
One demon, a blue-skinned fellow with small horns, raised his head
slightly. “Vendor 42, my lord. This miserable excuse for a merchant”—he
jabbed a finger at the other demon—“claims he has exclusive rights to the
communal bath on Tuesdays, but everyone knows Tuesdays are shared
bathing days as established in the Great Hygiene Compromise of⁠—”
“There’s only one bathhouse?” I interrupted, unable to hide my
incredulity.
“For this district, yes, my lord,” Sir Formalitee explained. “The Noble
Quarter has private baths, of course.”
Of course. While the common people fought over puddles, the nobles
maintained their luxuries. Three centuries of unchecked power had only
widened the gap between the haves and have-nots.
“And how many people live in this district?”
Sir Formalitee consulted his clipboard. “Approximately two thousand,
my lord.”
Two thousand people sharing one puddle that wouldn’t qualify as a
kiddie pool. No wonder everyone smelled like they’d been marinated in
gym socks. This wasn’t just medieval—this was a humanitarian crisis.
“Is there a natural water source nearby?” I asked, desperate for some
solution, some way to start fixing this mess.
“The Sulfurous Springs lie just beyond the eastern wall,” Azrael
supplied. “The water is heated by underground magma flows.”
A hot spring. They had a hot spring and people were fighting over a
puddle. The absurdity of it would have been comical if it weren’t so
heartbreaking.
“Why isn’t the spring being used for public baths?”
“The Noble Houses claimed the springs for their private use centuries
ago,” Sir Formalitee explained. “It’s all very properly documented in the⁠—”
“Right,” I cut him off, unable to bear another word about proper
documentation of suffering. “And where do people get drinking water?”
“The Well of Sorrows in the central market provides water for the
common folk,” Azrael said. “Though the supply has been… inconsistent in
recent years.”
One well. For an entire city. Medieval Europe had better infrastructure
than this place. Whatever systems I’d designed in the game had clearly
fallen apart during Lucien’s long absence.
We continued our tour, and with each step, I cataloged more problems
that needed fixing, more suffering that needed to end. No schools. No
hospitals. No public services of any kind. The only government function
that seemed to be working efficiently was tax collection, courtesy of Lord
Taxman’s Auditors of Doom.
Because of course the tax system would remain perfectly functional
while everything else fell apart. The priorities of this kingdom had become
severely warped in Lucien’s absence.
As we approached what Sir Formalitee called the “Residential
Quarter”—which was just a slightly less terrible slum—I noticed a
commotion ahead. A group of demons was gathered around something on
the ground, their voices raised in distress.
I quickened my pace, pushing through the crowd. In the center lay a
small demon child, unconscious, with skin so pale it was almost translucent.
A larger demon, presumably the parent, cradled the child, rocking back and
forth.
My heart seemed to stop in my chest. This wasn’t just abstract suffering
anymore—this was a child, a real child, dying in front of me.
“What happened?” I demanded, my voice sharper than I intended.
The parent looked up, then immediately prostrated himself, still
clutching the child. “Forgive me, Dark Lord! Citizen 1698 meant no
disruption to your tour! He merely—he hasn’t eaten in three days, and I—I
gave him my portion, but it wasn’t enough, and he just collapsed, and⁠—”
“Three days without food?” I turned to Sir Formalitee, who suddenly
found his clipboard fascinating. The rage that surged through me then was
unlike anything I’d ever felt. This child was starving to death, and the
parent was apologizing to me for the inconvenience.
“There have been… supply issues, my lord,” he mumbled. “The latest
shipment from the farmlands was delayed due to bandit activity, and the
ration system prioritizes productive workers and⁠—”
I’d heard enough. I knelt beside the parent and child, ignoring Azrael’s
sharp intake of breath. This moment, right here, was the culmination of
three centuries of neglect and mismanagement.
“What’s your name?” I asked the parent, my voice gentle despite the
storm of emotions raging inside me.
“Printer 7, my lord,” he replied, trembling.
Printer 7. Another placeholder name from the game that had become
someone’s actual identity. Another reminder of how this world had evolved
in ways I’d never intended.
 “Your child needs food and medical attention,” I said, fighting to keep
my voice steady. I looked up at the crowd. “Is there a healer nearby?”
The demons exchanged confused glances. Apparently, the Dark Lord
asking for a healer rather than causing the injuries was outside their
experience.
“Potion Mixer 15 has some skill with remedies,” someone volunteered
hesitantly.
“Get them here. Now.” I turned to Sir Formalitee. “Have food brought
from the castle kitchens. Enough for everyone in this district.”
Sir Formalitee’s eyes bulged. “Everyone? But my lord, that would be
thousands of⁠—”
“Everyone,” I repeated, a steel in my voice I didn’t know I possessed.
“And I want clean water brought as well.”
I stood, addressing the growing crowd. The words that came next
weren’t planned or calculated—they erupted from somewhere deep inside
me, from the part that couldn’t bear to see one more moment of this
suffering.
“Listen to me. Things are going to change in Iferona. No one should go
hungry. No one should drink filthy water. No one should live in squalor.”
A murmur ran through the crowd. I could see the disbelief in their eyes,
mixed with a dangerous thing—hope. Hope that I wasn’t sure I could fulfill
but was determined to try.
“I make you this promise,” I continued, the words coming from
somewhere I didn’t recognize. “Within one month, every citizen will have
enough food, clean water, and decent shelter. This I swear as your dark
lord.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Then, to my shock, the demon
parent prostrated himself again, touching his forehead to my boot.
“Blessed be the Dark Lord’s return,” he whispered. “The prophecy is
fulfilled.”
Wait, what prophecy?
“Blessed be the Dark Lord’s return! The prophecy is fulfilled!” they all
chanted.
Demons were dropping to their knees all around me, some weeping
openly. Even Sir Formalitee had abandoned protocol to join the
genuflecting masses.
 I shot a questioning look at Azrael, who stood rigid as a statue, frost
literally forming on his perfect uniform.
“There is an… obscure text,” he said stiffly, “that speaks of the Dark
Lord returning from a great slumber, transformed into a bringer of
prosperity rather than destruction. It was dismissed as heretical nonsense by
the previous administration.”
Previous administration meaning him, I gathered. Azrael did not look
pleased that the “heretical nonsense” was gaining traction.
“Well,” I said brightly, trying to mask the overwhelming mix of
determination and terror churning inside me, “prophecy or not, we’re
making changes. Starting with food distribution. Then water and
sanitation.”
“As you wish, my lord,” Azrael replied, his voice as cold as his frosted
lapels. “Though I must express concern about depleting the castle’s stores
for… commoners.”
The way he said “commoners” made it sound like “cockroaches.” It was
a stark reminder that while I might have different values than the original
Lucien, the world and its power structures remained very much the same.
“We’ll figure something out,” I said firmly. “No one starves in my
kingdom. Not anymore.”
Not if I had anything to say about it. I might not have asked for this
responsibility, but I was damn well going to fix what had broken in
Lucien’s absence. These people deserved better than what they’d endured
for the past three centuries.

OceanofPDF.com
 10

Lucien/Beau

B
y the time we returned to the castle, I was filthy and thoroughly
depressed by the state of my domain. I’d made a lot of promises out
there—promises I had no idea how to keep. The castle’s food stores
wouldn’t last long if we were feeding the entire city. The infrastructure
problems would take months, maybe years to fix properly. And I’d
essentially set myself a one-month deadline because my big mouth couldn’t
help making dramatic proclamations.
I flopped onto my massive bed, still fully dressed, limbs splayed out
like a starfish having an existential crisis. Mr. Snuggles, who’d been
remarkably well behaved throughout the tour, hopped down from my
shoulders and grew to the size of a large dog, curling up beside me with his
head on my chest.
“What am I going to do, Mr. Snuggles?” I asked, scratching behind his
ears. “I can’t let them starve, but I don’t have enough food. I can’t fix
centuries of neglect overnight. It’s not like I can wave a magic wand and
conjure up a functional sewage system and a few thousand loaves of bread.”
The dragon made a sympathetic rumbling sound that vibrated through
my rib cage like a purring washing machine.
“I need to check the treasury,” I muttered. “See exactly what resources
we’re working with. Though what good is a pile of medieval gold coins
going to do? It’s not like I can waltz into the neighboring kingdom with a
sack of Iferona currency and ask for their finest farming equipment. ‘Hello
there, good sir! I’m the Dark Lord from next door. Would you accept these
evil-looking coins with my face on them in exchange for your finest non-
evil vegetables?’”
Mr. Snuggles perked up at the mention of the treasury, his one good eye
gleaming with interest while the milky blind one stared vaguely in the
direction of my left ear.
“You want to show me where it is, buddy?” I asked.
The dragon nodded enthusiastically, hopping off the bed and padding
toward the door. He looked back at me expectantly, tail swishing with such
excitement you’d think I’d suggested a trip to the dragon park.
“Lead the way,” I said, dragging myself up with all the enthusiasm of a
sloth on tranquilizers. My feet screamed in protest—we’d walked miles
today through the city—but curiosity pushed me forward. If I was going to
save this kingdom, I needed to know what I was working with, even if it
was just fancy coins I couldn’t spend anywhere.
Mr. Snuggles led me through a series of corridors, each more gothic and
dramatic than the last. We passed at least three rooms that seemed to exist
solely to house creepy portraits of previous rulers, all of whom appeared to
have mastered the art of looking constipated while holding a scepter. Down
several flights of stairs we went, each step taking us deeper into what felt
like the world’s most elaborate basement, until finally we reached a massive
iron door guarded by two demons who looked like they were made of living
stone. They immediately knelt when they saw me, moving with the grinding
sound of rock against rock.
“Dark Lord,” they intoned in perfect unison, like they’d been practicing
this moment for centuries.
“Rise,” I said, trying to sound authoritative. “I wish to inspect the
treasury.”
They exchanged glances, their stone faces somehow managing to
convey surprise. “Of course, my lord. It has been… some time since you
last visited.”
One of them produced an enormous key from somewhere within his
stony body (I decided not to question the logistics of that—some mysteries
are better left unsolved) and unlocked the door. It swung open with a
dramatic groan that probably qualified as a sound effect in horror movies.
The treasury wasn’t what I expected. Instead of a room filled with gold
coins like some dragon’s hoard from a fantasy movie, it was a vast chamber
with different sections. One area held chests and strongboxes, another
displayed weapons and armor on racks, and a third contained shelves of
glowing objects that I assumed were magical artifacts or possibly very
expensive lava lamps.
“The royal treasury of Iferona,” the guard announced with unnecessary
drama. “All is as you left it, my lord, save for what was needed to maintain
the realm in your absence.”
I nodded, trying to look like I knew exactly what should be here. “Leave
me. I wish to conduct my inspection in private.”
The guards bowed and retreated, closing the door behind them with
another theatrical groan. As soon as they were gone, I turned to Mr.
Snuggles.
“Okay, buddy, where’s the actual money kept? The stuff we can
theoretically use to buy food for starving demon children?”
The dragon trotted over to the section with the chests and strongboxes,
nosing at a particularly large one made of black metal with silver runes
etched into its surface. It looked like something that should contain either
immense treasure or an ancient evil that would devour my soul. Possibly
both.
“How do I open it? Is there a key? A password? Do I need to sacrifice a
virgin or something? Because if so, I guess I’m in trouble…”
Mr. Snuggles looked at me expectantly, then nudged my hand toward
the chest.
“Right. Dark Lord magic, I’m guessing? Or maybe it just recognizes my
overwhelming charisma and natural leadership qualities.” I placed my hand
on the chest, and to my surprise, the runes glowed briefly before the lid
unlocked with a soft click. “Or option three: it’s magically keyed to my
touch. Less exciting, but more practical.”
I lifted the lid and nearly fell backward. The chest was filled to the brim
with gold coins, gemstones, and what appeared to be small ingots of various
metals. I’d never seen so much wealth in one place outside of movies about
bank heists or documentaries about obscenely rich people.
“Holy guacamole,” I whispered, picking up a handful of coins and
letting them trickle through my fingers like the world’s most expensive rain.
They were heavy, clearly real gold, each stamped with a design I recognized
as my own royal seal. “I’m like a medieval billionaire, except with better
hair and worse customer service ratings.”
 I moved to the next chest, which opened just as easily. This one
contained platinum coins and larger gemstones, some the size of chicken
eggs. The third held what appeared to be deeds and titles to properties
throughout the realm, all rolled up and sealed with wax bearing my
insignia.
“I’m rich,” I said, somewhat dazed. “Like, actually, legitimately,
swimming-in-money rich. Not ‘I can finally afford name-brand cereal’ rich,
but ‘I could buy the entire cereal company and rename all their products
after my pets’ rich.”
Mr. Snuggles made a sound that seemed suspiciously like a dragon’s
version of “duh.”
I remembered now. In the game, I’d accumulated vast wealth through
conquests, dungeon raids, and centuries of taxation. Even with half the staff
gone and the kingdom in decline, there was still enough here to fund a small
country for years.
“This changes everything,” I said, mentally calculating how much food
and supplies I could purchase with even a fraction of this wealth. “Or at
least it would, if I had any way to actually use it. It’s not like I can walk into
a market with these coins and ask for ten thousand loaves of bread and
some plumbing fixtures.”
I sank down onto a nearby chest, the reality of my situation crashing
back down on me. “What good is all this wealth if I can’t actually use it to
help anyone? If only there was some way to convert this into something
useful. Like an interdimensional currency exchange. Or better yet, an online
shopping service. Wouldn’t that be convenient?”
I sighed, thinking back to my old job at OpenSesame. For all its
corporate nonsense and soul-crushing customer service protocols, at least it
had been efficient. You could order practically anything and have it
delivered right to your door. My last thought before the truck hit me had
even been wondering if OpenSesame delivered to the afterlife.
“Open sesame,” I muttered sarcastically, waving my hand at the
treasure. “Deliver me some actual useful supplies instead of pretty but
functionally useless medieval currency.”
A soft chime rang through the treasury chamber, like a notification
sound but impossibly more elegant. I froze mid-gesture, my hand still
outstretched.
 A faint blue glow pulsed once, twice, then expanded outward from my
fingertips, coalescing into a translucent rectangular window that hovered
about three feet in front of me. The edges shimmered with subtle animation,
framing an interface that looked disturbingly familiar.
“What the…” I stumbled backward, nearly tripping over Mr. Snuggles,
who let out an indignant huff. The dragon stared at the space where I was
looking, his head tilted in confusion. Clearly, he couldn’t see what I was
seeing.
I rubbed my eyes, certain I was hallucinating from exhaustion or
possibly from inhaling too much ancient treasury dust. But when I looked
again, the glowing interface remained, patiently hovering, its blue light
casting eerie shadows across the gold coins scattered at my feet.
A logo materialized at the top of the window—the same stylized “OS”
I’d worn on my name badge for three years. Below it, text appeared as if
being typed by invisible hands.
[Initializing Interdimensional Commerce Facilitation Protocol:
Helpdesk Supreme, Assistant Manager of Customer Satisfaction, Version
7.3.4]
[Detecting user… Identity confirmed: Lucien Noir, Dark Lord of
Iferona, Account #DL-001]
[Helpdesk Supreme welcomes valued customer Lord Lucien. It has
been 372 years, 4 months, and 16 days since your last transaction. Helpdesk
Supreme notes this exceeds our recommended account activity guidelines
by approximately 372 years, 4 months, and 15 days.]
“No fucking way,” I whispered, reaching out a trembling hand toward
the apparition. My fingers met resistance—not solid like glass, but more
like pushing through a membrane of cool water that somehow remained in
place. The interface rippled at my touch, responding like the world’s most
surreal iPad.
Mr. Snuggles made a confused warbling sound, pawing at the air where
I was touching nothing he could see.
“This can’t be real,” I told him, though I wasn’t sure which of us I was
trying to convince. “This is… this is impossible.”
The window displayed a text input field at the bottom. I experimentally
tapped it, and a keyboard materialized beneath it.
What are you? I typed.
 [Helpdesk Supreme is the premier interdimensional commerce
facilitation protocol designed to enable seamless procurement experiences
across multiple realms, dimensions, and temporal planes. This unit operates
under OpenSesame Corporate Directive 7.3.4, subsection B, which outlines
optimal customer engagement parameters for entities of royal or equivalent
status, with special provisions for Dark Lords as enumerated in appendix⁠—]
I stopped reading halfway through. The corporate jargon was giving me
flashbacks to mandatory training sessions.
Is there a way to talk instead of type? And can you be less… corporate?
I typed.
[Helpdesk Supreme acknowledges request for audio interface
activation. Regarding communication style modification, this unit must
respectfully inform valued customer that OpenSesame maintains strict
standards for customer interaction protocols as outlined in our
Interdimensional Commerce Conduct Guidelines, Section 12, Paragraph 7,
which specifically prohibits casual discourse that might diminish the
professional relationship between⁠—]
“Oh my God, stop,” I groaned out loud. “Is there a voice chat option or
not?”
To my surprise, the text disappeared, and a small microphone icon
appeared in its place.
[Voice interface activated. How may Helpdesk Supreme assist you
today, Lord Lucien?]
The voice emanated from the glowing interface—neither male nor
female, with the exact same corporate cheerfulness that had haunted my
nightmares during my call center days.
“Much better.” I sighed in relief. “Now, can you explain what this is in
twenty words or less? No corporate jargon.”
[Interdimensional shopping service. Convert treasury to tokens. Buy
anything from 7,423 realms. Delivery guaranteed.]
I blinked in surprise. “That was… actually helpful. And only sixteen
words. I’m impressed.”
[Helpdesk Supreme values efficiency when specifically requested. This
unit observes that valued customer appears to prefer direct communication.
Would you like to proceed with treasury asset conversion?]
“Yes, but first—I’m calling you Supremo. Your full name is ridiculous.”
 [This unit’s designation is ‘Interdimensional Commerce Facilitation
Protocol: Helpdesk Supreme, Assistant Manager of Customer Satisfaction,’
not ‘Supremo.’]
“Yeah, that’s exactly my point. You’re Supremo now. Deal with it.”
[Helpdesk Supreme must register a formal objection to this
unauthorized designation modification. However, this unit acknowledges
that 42% of users assign alternative designations despite clear protocol
violations. Would valued customer like to proceed with treasury
conversion?]
“Yes, Supremo,” I said, grinning at the interface’s obvious disapproval.
“Show me how to convert this gold into something useful.”
[Please select conversion method: 1. Manual selection, 2. Automatic
valuation, 3. Percentage allocation]
I tapped ‘Automatic valuation,’ because if I was going to have a
psychotic break, I might as well go with the most efficient option. A new
screen appeared showing an inventory of the treasury’s contents with
estimated values in something called ‘OpenTokens.’
[Total Available Assets: Equivalent to 227,456,892 OpenTokens]
Two hundred and twenty-seven million? My head spun faster than a
drunk ballerina. That was an absurd amount of money for an individual, but
alarmingly modest for an entire kingdom’s treasury. From what I
remembered of the game’s lore, a prosperous realm like the Cizia Republic
would have treasuries in the tens of trillions, their mercantile empire
funding elite battlemages and economic leverage across multiple realms.
Even the militaristic Groston Empire would command wealth in the
trillions, financing their Radiant Legion and expansionist campaigns.
Iferona, by comparison, was practically destitute on a national scale.
The crumbling infrastructure, the starving citizens, the depleted military—
clearly, the kingdom’s wealth had been steadily draining away during my
long absence. What I was looking at was probably less than one percent of
what should have been here, the last remnants of a once-great treasury.
Still, even this diminished fortune would be enough to address the
immediate crises facing my subjects. And if I managed things properly,
maybe I could rebuild Iferona’s economy to compete with those prosperous
realms someday. The Dark Realm had fallen far, but with careful
management, perhaps it could rise again.
 [Helpdesk Supreme notices valued customer’s extended period of
contemplation. Would you like this unit to suggest appropriate spending
categories based on your realm’s current socioeconomic indicators?]
“You can see the condition of my realm?” I asked, surprised.
[Helpdesk Supreme regularly monitors connected realms to optimize
purchase recommendations. This unit observes that Iferona is experiencing:
critical infrastructure failure, widespread malnutrition, inadequate
sanitation, defensive vulnerabilities, and a 94.3% decline in overall
prosperity metrics since your last login. May this unit suggest emergency
relief supplies as a priority purchase?]
“Well, that’s… actually helpful,” I admitted grudgingly. “Let’s start with
that.”
[Proceed with conversion?]
[Conversion amount:
□ 100 OT
□ 1,000 OT
□ 10,000 OT
□ 100,000 OT
□ Custom amount: _______]
I hesitated, then entered ‘50,000’ in the custom field. Best to start small,
just in case this was some elaborate magical trap designed to punish greedy
dark lords. Or in case I woke up was suddenly back in my crappy apartment
with a maxed-out credit card and nothing to show for it but an elaborate
fantasy.
[Converting 50,000 OpenTokens from treasury assets. Physical
equivalent will be removed from Chest 7, Section B. Confirm?]
I glanced at the chests, wondering which was ‘Chest 7, Section B.’
Probably one of the ones I hadn’t opened yet. “Confirm,” I said aloud, then
tapped the button, half expecting sirens to go off and the floor to open
beneath me, dropping me into a pit of spikes or possibly a pool of
administrative paperwork.
There was a soft chiming sound, like the world’s most polite cash
register, and the window updated.
[Conversion complete. Your new balance is 50,000 OpenTokens. What
would you like to purchase today? Helpdesk Supreme notes that
‘emergency relief supplies’ and ‘basic survival necessities’ are not typically
selected by Dark Lords, who statistically prefer ‘torture devices,’ ‘soul-
binding artifacts,’ and ‘ominous architectural elements.’]
“Are you judging my shopping choices?” I asked incredulously.
[Helpdesk Supreme does not judge. This unit merely observes that
valued customer’s selections deviate from established Dark Lord
purchasing patterns by approximately 97.8%.]
“Well, I’m not your typical Dark Lord,” I muttered, tapping the ‘Food &
Supplies’ category that had appeared on screen.
[Helpdesk Supreme has noticed. This unit has already created a new
customer profile category: ‘Atypical Dark Lord with Concerning
Humanitarian Tendencies.’]
“Just show me the food options, Supremo.”
The selection that appeared was staggering. Bulk grains, preserved
meats, dried fruits, cooking oils, seeds for planting, farming tools, cooking
equipment… everything I could possibly need to feed a starving population.
It was like someone had taken my old workplace, removed all the corporate
soul-crushing elements, and transformed it into a magical wish-fulfillment
service.
Well, most of the soul-crushing elements. Supremo’s corporate
personality was apparently interdimensional.
“This is incredible,” I said, scrolling through the options. “But this is
going to take forever to sort through. I need to place a massive order for
emergency relief. Is there a way to streamline this?”
[Helpdesk Supreme can activate Emergency Relief Protocol. This unit
will calculate appropriate quantities based on population size and nutritional
requirements. Would valued customer like to proceed with this option?]
“Yes, please,” I replied, surprised by the helpful suggestion.
[Please provide population estimate and primary nutritional concerns.]
“About forty thousand demons of various types. Many are severely
malnourished, including children. Limited cooking facilities available.
Need immediate consumption options.”
[Calculating optimal emergency relief package. Helpdesk Supreme
notes that ‘feeding the masses’ is selected by Dark Lords in only 0.003% of
transactions. Most preferred Dark Lord activities include: ‘subjugating the
masses,’ ‘terrifying the masses,’ and ‘experimenting on the masses.’ Would
valued customer like recommendations more aligned with traditional Dark
Lord activities?]
 “No, I would not,” I said firmly. “And you can stop with the Dark Lord
statistical comparisons. I get it—I’m weird.”
[Noted. Helpdesk Supreme will update your customer profile to
‘Extremely Atypical Dark Lord with Concerning Humanitarian Tendencies
and Sensitivity About Being Compared to Peers.’]
“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”
[Helpdesk Supreme does not possess the capacity for purposeful
antagonism. This unit is programmed solely for optimal customer
satisfaction. Your emergency relief package has been calculated. Total cost:
179,842 OpenTokens. Would you like to review the contents before
confirming?]
[For a comprehensive three-day emergency relief package, Helpdesk
Supreme recommends the following:

30,000 units of liquid nutrition supplement for severely

malnourished individuals
200,000 ready-to-eat meals (various types)
120,000 gallons of purified water
10,000 water purification tablets
5,000 portable shelter units
8,000 hygiene kits
2,000 portable cooking stations with fuel
500 medical supply kits
Distribution materials (containers, serving tools, etc.)
Instructional materials with pictorial guides]

“That’s… a lot,” I said, somewhat overwhelmed. “But given what’s in

the treasury, it’s manageable. How quickly can all this be delivered?”
[Helpdesk Supreme offers expedited emergency relief delivery. Items
can begin arriving within four hours, with complete delivery within twelve
hours. Would you like to select this option?]
“Four hours?” I sat up straight. “That soon? Yes, absolutely, but we’ll
need to phase the deliveries so we’re not overwhelmed all at once. Can we
start with food and water, then move to shelter and hygiene supplies?”
[An excellent suggestion. Helpdesk Supreme has arranged a phased
delivery schedule:
 Phase 1 (4 hours): Food, water, and distribution supplies
Phase 2 (8 hours): Shelter and sanitation
Phase 3 (12 hours): Remaining supplies

Will this arrangement work for you?]

“Perfect,” I replied. “And make sure everything comes with pictorial
instructions. Many recipients won’t be familiar with these items.”
[Certainly. All items will include clear pictorial instructions. Helpdesk
Supreme has also added distribution guidance materials for your staff,
including registration forms, inventory checklists, and procedural
guidelines.]
After reviewing the final order, a new thought occurred to me.
“Supremo, quick question, can I sell things through OpenSesame too?
Or is it just for buying?”
[Helpdesk Supreme is pleased to inform valued customer that
OpenSesame offers comprehensive two-way commerce solutions. The
Interdimensional Merchant Program allows sellers to reach customers
across 7,423 realms, dimensions, and temporal locations.]
“So I could theoretically sell Iferona products to other realms?” My
mind was already racing with possibilities. Those shadow mushrooms that
grew in the Murk Marshes had unique properties. And the obsidian from
our mines was supposedly of exceptional quality.
[Affirmative. Helpdesk Supreme observes that Iferona possesses 37
unique resources that are classified as ‘rare’ or ‘exclusive’ in the
interdimensional marketplace. Setting up a merchant account would require
completing a mere 24-page application, providing 13 distinct magical
verifications, and agreeing to the standard 912-page terms of service.]
“Of course it would,” I muttered. “What’s your commission rate?”
[OpenSesame’s Interdimensional Merchant Program operates on a
variable commission structure ranging from 8% to 42% depending on
product category, realm of origin, dimensional accessibility factor, and
whether the seller has opted into our ‘Premium Placement’ program which
offers enhanced visibility across⁠—]
“Okay, okay, I get it. We’ll circle back to the selling part later.” I made a
mental note to explore this further once the immediate crisis was handled. If
I could establish Iferona as an exporter of unique goods, it might provide a
sustainable revenue stream to fund the kingdom’s recovery.
 “For now, let’s focus on the relief supplies. Confirm order.”
[Order confirmed! Helpdesk Supreme thanks valued customer for
choosing OpenSesame Interdimensional Commerce. Your first delivery will
arrive in the eastern courtyard in approximately four hours. This unit wishes
you success in your highly unusual mission of actually helping your
subjects instead of tormenting them.]
“Has anyone ever told you that you have an attitude problem,
Supremo?”
[Helpdesk Supreme does not have ‘attitude.’ This unit has a customer
satisfaction rating of 98.7% across all realms. The 1.3% dissatisfaction rate
primarily consists of users who expired during the ordering process due to
unrelated combat incidents.]
“Right,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Well, keep the interface open. I’ll
probably need to place more orders soon. And maybe set up that merchant
account eventually.”
[Helpdesk Supreme will maintain active status. This unit has taken the
liberty of preparing a preliminary analysis of Iferona’s most marketable
exports for your future consideration. This unit suggests valued customer
might want to consider ordering some ominous decorative elements
alongside future humanitarian supplies. Perhaps a tasteful skull motif to
maintain Dark Lord appearances while distributing food?]
“I’ll take it under advisement,” I replied dryly. “Come on, Mr. Snuggles.
We’ve got about four hours to figure out how we’re going to distribute all
this stuff to hungry demons without causing a riot.”
As I left the treasury with Mr. Snuggles padding alongside me, I
couldn’t help but smile. Somehow, in this strange new world of demons and
dark magic, I’d found a connection to my old life—even if that connection
came in the form of an interdimensional shopping assistant with an attitude
problem.
But Supremo had given me something even more valuable than that
connection—not just a way to help my subjects immediately, but potentially
a path to sustainable recovery for the entire realm. For the first time since
I’d arrived in this world, I felt like I had a purpose and a plan.
Four years of business school had to be good for something, right?
Mr. Snuggles nudged my hand with his scaly head, as if sensing my
thoughts.
 “Don’t worry, buddy,” I told him, scratching under his chin. “Your Dark
Lord has a plan. Sort of. We’re going to save this city, one cup noodle at a
time.”

OceanofPDF.com
 11

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.”
“Excellent point,” I said, leaning over the map and hoping I looked
thoughtful rather than completely lost. The city center was a mess of tiny
streets and symbols that might as well have been hieroglyphics. I was about
as qualified to redesign urban planning as a hamster was to perform brain
surgery. “The city center is too congested for efficient distribution, and most
of the housing is uninhabitable anyway. What we need is a temporary relief
camp—somewhere with open space where we can set up the shelter tents,
water stations, and food distribution points.”
Relief camp? Where had that come from? Oh right, that post-
apocalyptic survival game I’d binged last summer during a particularly
depressing weekend. I was literally basing life-or-death decisions for
thousands of demons on a game I’d played while eating microwave burritos
in my underwear. If there was a prize for most unqualified leader in the
history of leadership, I was a shoo-in.
General Smashington leaned his massive frame over the table, causing
the wood to groan under his weight. His voice rumbled like distant thunder.
“The Ashen Fields to the east of the city would serve well. It is a large open
area, easily defensible, with natural wind barriers from the eastern cliffs,
and close enough to the city for convenient access.”
I nodded sagely, as if I hadn’t just learned about the existence of the
Ashen Fields three seconds ago. “Interesting suggestion. Tell me more
about the terrain.” There. That sounded leader-like, right? Ask for more
information when you have absolutely no clue what’s going on—
Management 101.
Lady Shadowfax’s form rippled. When she spoke, it sounded like
multiple voices whispering in unison, which was disconcerting to say the
least. “My scouts report the area is clear of bandit activity. The ground is
stable, despite recent rains.”
“Perfect.” I nodded, as if I’d been considering the soil stability all along
and hadn’t just been thinking about whether demon bandits wore tiny masks
or just had naturally sneaky faces. “We’ll establish a relief camp there.
Now, we need teams for setup, registration, security, distribution, and
medical care.”
The words were coming out of my mouth, but I felt like I was watching
someone else speak—someone who actually knew what they were doing.
Meanwhile, my internal monologue was a constant stream of “What are you
saying? Stop making promises! You’re going to get everyone killed with
your incompetence!”
Lord Taxman adjusted his spectacles again. “My accountants can
establish a registration system. We have experience cataloging souls for the
annual tax collection.” He paused, then added hastily, “Though, of course,
this would be for aid distribution, not… extraction.”
Wait, what? Tax collection involved soul extraction? I made a mental
note to look into demonic tax reform at the earliest opportunity, right after
“prevent mass starvation” and “figure out why I’m here.”
“Good,” I said, ignoring the whole soul-extraction thing for now. “I
want a system that accounts for family size and special needs. No one gets
left behind, especially the vulnerable.” I was basically quoting the mission
statement from a charity commercial I’d seen while half-asleep, but the
demons were nodding.
“Family size?” Duke Splashypants gurgled, water droplets forming and
falling from his webbed hands. “Many demons in the lower districts live in
communal nests rather than traditional family units. How shall we account
for them?”
I hadn’t considered that. Of course demon social structures would be
different. Why would I assume demons lived in nuclear families with two
point five kids and a mortgage? This was why I was wildly unqualified for
this job—I knew less about demon sociology than I did about quantum
physics, and my knowledge of quantum physics was limited to “something
about cats in boxes.”
“Excellent point,” I said, trying to sound like this was a minor detail
rather than a fundamental oversight in my hastily constructed plan. “We’ll
need to adapt our registration to account for various living arrangements.
What’s the largest communal group size we might encounter?”
“The Murk Marsh immigrants live in pods of up to thirty individuals,”
Duke Splashypants replied. “They share resources communally and would
be distressed if forced to register individually.”
Thirty demons in one pod? That sounded less like a family unit and
more like a college dorm room after the apocalypse. “Then we’ll register
them as pods,” I decided, making it up as I went along. “Each living group,
whether family or communal, gets supplies proportionate to their size and
needs.”
Magister Wiggles nodded enthusiastically, causing the swirling magic
beneath his skin to form complex patterns that made me slightly dizzy.
“Most innovative, my lord! I propose we use magical markers for each
registered group. My acolytes can create tokens that glow when the bearer
approaches the correct distribution point, preventing duplication and
confusion.”
Magic tokens? That sounded way more sophisticated than the “take a
number” system I’d been vaguely imagining. “Excellent idea,” I said,
grateful that someone in the room actually knew what they were doing.
“And speaking of distribution points, we should organize them by type of
aid. Food, water, shelter, hygiene—separate stations for each, with clear
pathways between them.”
I was basically describing a mall food court, but with emergency
supplies instead. And the demons were eating it up like I was presenting
revolutionary concepts in logistics management.
General Smashington nodded, the bone ornaments in his armor clinking
together like macabre wind chimes. “My warriors can maintain order. I
suggest we establish a perimeter with controlled entry points.”
I had a sudden vision of terrified demon families being herded through
checkpoints by armored brutes with skull-adorned weapons. “Just don’t
make it look like a prison camp,” I cautioned. “These are citizens in need,
not prisoners or enemies. Your soldiers should project safety, not
intimidation.”
The general looked momentarily confused, as if the concept of
nonthreatening security was entirely foreign to him, then nodded slowly.
“As you command, my lord. We shall… smile?” The word seemed foreign
in his mouth, like he was trying to pronounce a particularly difficult word in
a language he’d just started learning.
“Maybe just don’t scowl actively,” I suggested, trying not to laugh at the
mental image of General Smashington’s troops practicing smiles in a
mirror. “And no weapons unless absolutely necessary.”
Lady Shadowfax’s form condensed slightly, becoming almost
humanoid. “My agents can circulate through the crowds, identifying
troublemakers before conflicts arise. We can also identify those with special
needs who might be too proud or afraid to come forward.”
Great, so we’d have secret police mingling with the refugees. That
didn’t sound dystopian at all. But I supposed in a realm where the previous
administration’s management style involved “motivational
disembowelment,” this was probably considered progressive policy.
“Perfect,” I said, trying to focus on the positive aspects of her
suggestion. “What about the most vulnerable? The children, the elderly, the
sick? They shouldn’t have to wait in long lines.”
Duke Splashypants gurgled thoughtfully, the gills on his neck flaring
like tiny underwater fans. “The Moist Dominion can establish a separate
distribution line for them, ensuring they receive priority care. My subjects
are naturally nurturing to the young and infirm.”
I tried not to focus on the phrase “Moist Dominion,” which sounded like
the world’s least appealing spa retreat. “Good.” I nodded. “And we’ll need a
medical tent for those too weak to feed themselves. Who has healing
skills?”
A small, timid-looking demon with moth wings and antennae raised her
hand. Her voice was soft but clear. “I am Healer 47, my lord. My team
specializes in malnutrition and physical deterioration. We have been… quite
busy in recent years.” Her wings drooped slightly.
The understatement of the century, judging by what I’d seen in the city.
“Excellent, Healer 47. Set up a medical area in the center of the camp.
You’ll receive special nutrition supplements designed for the severely
malnourished.”
Her antennae perked up like a cat spotting a laser pointer. “Truly, my
lord? Such specialized remedies would be… miraculous. Our current
treatments are limited to diluted blood broth and shadow fungus.”
I tried not to grimace at what sounded like the world’s worst soup
kitchen menu. “Yes, truly. You’ll have proper medical supplies by
tomorrow.”
Mistress Pokey stepped forward again. “My workers can assist with
food distribution. They understand portion control and have experience with
rationing from the… recent difficulties.” She glanced nervously at Azrael,
who remained impassive.
“This won’t be rationing,” I clarified, trying to sound confident rather
than terrified that I might be overpromising. “Everyone gets enough. But
your experience will be valuable in organizing the distribution efficiently.”
As the planning continued, I noticed something remarkable happening.
The demons were… collaborating. Departments that apparently hadn’t
spoken to each other in centuries were now coordinating efforts, offering
resources, volunteering personnel. The energy in the room had transformed
from fearful deference to purposeful excitement.
Lord Taxman was deep in conversation with Duke Splashypants about
creating waterproof registration scrolls for the amphibious citizens. Lady
Shadowfax and General Smashington were marking security routes on the
map, while Magister Wiggles demonstrated his glowing tokens to Healer
47, who suggested color-coding them for medical priorities.
They were actually doing it. They were planning a massive
humanitarian operation based on my half-baked ideas and random
suggestions. Either I was accidentally brilliant, or they were so desperate
for leadership that any direction was better than none. Probably the latter.
“We’ll need volunteers from each district to help with setup and to
spread the word,” I said, feeling a bit more confident now that nobody had
laughed in my face—at least not yet. “Those who step forward will be
remembered and rewarded.”
“I shall announce a call for volunteers immediately, my lord,” Sir
Formalitee declared, already scribbling furiously on his clipboard.
“Protocol 12D: Recruitment of Civilian Assistance During Non-Combative
Emergencies clearly outlines the procedure for⁠—”
“Just tell them we need help and there’s food involved,” I interrupted
gently. My customer service experience had taught me that complex
explanations rarely work as well as simple incentives. Free food got people
to sit through timeshare presentations; it would probably work for demon
volunteer recruitment too.
Sir Formalitee blinked rapidly, like a computer trying to process an
unexpected command, then made a note. “Simplified recruitment
messaging. Most innovative, my lord.”
A demon with the head of a crow and fingers that ended in quills
stepped forward. “Scribe 103, my lord. I can produce illustrated
announcements for distribution throughout the city. Many lower district
residents cannot read the high demonic script.”
“Perfect,” I said, mentally adding “literacy program” to my ever-
growing list of “things this kingdom desperately needs that I have no idea
how to provide.” “Keep the message simple: help is coming, go to the
Ashen Fields, bring your family, no one will be turned away.”
Scribe 103 nodded, already sketching in the air with his quill-fingers,
leaving glowing trails that formed simple pictograms. It was like watching a
demonic PowerPoint presentation being created in real time.
“What about transportation?” I asked. “Not everyone will be able to
walk to the Ashen Fields, especially the sick or elderly.”
General Smashington gestured to one of his lieutenants, a muscular
demon with the lower body of a horse. “Commander Hoofcrusher’s cavalry
can provide transport for those unable to walk. They are… gentle when
required.” The last part seemed to be added reluctantly, as if “gentle” was a
shameful weakness for a warrior to possess.
Commander Hoofcrusher saluted with a clash of metal gauntlets that
made me jump slightly. “We shall convey the infirm with the utmost care,
my lord! Not a single elderly demon shall be trampled under our watch!”
I decided to take that as the reassurance it was presumably meant to be,
though the specific promise not to trample the elderly suggested a
concerning history that I didn’t want to explore right now.
“What about shelter arrangements?” I asked, trying to envision how to
organize a camp for thousands of demons with wildly different physiologies
and social structures. “The tents will need to be organized logically.”
A tall, thin demon with skin like parchment and eyes that glowed with
geometrical patterns stepped forward. “Architect 17, my lord. I suggest we
arrange the tents in concentric circles around central facilities—food, water,
medical. This creates efficient traffic flow and defensible space.”
Concentric circles? That sounded way more sophisticated than my
vague plan of “put tents where they fit.” This demon had clearly thought
about this more in the last five minutes than I had in my entire life.
“Good thinking,” I agreed, trying to sound like I was evaluating his
suggestion rather than latching on to it like a drowning man to a life
preserver. “But let’s also ensure there are community spaces between tent
clusters. People need to socialize, especially during hardship.”
Architect 17 looked momentarily confused, then nodded. “Social…
interaction. Yes. I shall incorporate… gathering areas.” He said this as if it
were a novel concept, which made me wonder just how dystopian life in
Iferona had been before my arrival.
By the time we finished, we had a comprehensive plan: establish a relief
camp at the Ashen Fields, move the most vulnerable citizens there first, set
up distribution systems based on family or pod size, create a registration
process to prevent hoarding, and position guards to maintain order without
intimidation.
I was simultaneously impressed by how much we’d accomplished and
terrified by how much could go wrong. This wasn’t like planning a
company picnic where the worst-case scenario was running out of potato
salad. People’s lives were at stake, and I was in charge despite having
absolutely no qualifications beyond a business degree and extensive
experience with resource management video games.
“One last thing,” I said as we prepared to conclude, trying to sound wise
rather than panicked. “This is emergency relief while we develop longer-
term solutions. In the coming days, we’ll need to address the city’s
infrastructure, food production, and housing. But for now, let’s focus on
keeping everyone fed, hydrated, and sheltered.”
Sir Formalitee raised his hand tentatively. “My lord, shall I schedule a
follow-up strategic planning session for three days hence? That would allow
time for initial distribution while providing a framework for long-term
developmental discussions.”
I nodded, impressed by his foresight and grateful that someone was
thinking ahead, because my planning horizon currently extended about six
hours into the future. “Excellent suggestion. Three days from now, same
location. Please prepare reports on the most urgent infrastructure needs in
each district.”
The meeting dispersed with remarkable efficiency, each demon hurrying
off to fulfill their assigned tasks. Azrael remained by my side, his
expression unreadable.
“Your… management style is different than before,” he said finally.
“Different good or different bad?” I asked, genuinely curious. I’d been
making it up as I went along, guided by nothing but common sense and
vague memories of disaster relief documentaries.
“Different… effective,” he replied carefully. “Though I admit, I
expected more threats of disembowelment. The previous administration
found that motivational fear improved productivity.”
“I find collaboration works better than intestinal removal for most
administrative tasks,” I said dryly. “Positive reinforcement tends to yield
better results than terror.” Thank you, Management 201: Organizational
Behavior. Who knew that class would actually come in handy?
“Indeed, my lord. Most innovative.” Azrael’s tone was neutral, but I
could have sworn I saw a flicker of something like approval in his crimson
eyes. “Though I must confess, your ability to remember all these demons’
designations is impressive. The previous you often referred to everyone as
‘you there’ or ‘insignificant worm.’”
I hadn’t actually remembered their designations—I’d just been
responding to whoever spoke. But I wasn’t about to admit that. “A good
leader knows their team,” I said, trying to sound wise rather than
completely out of my depth. I was pretty sure I’d read that on a
motivational poster somewhere, probably next to a picture of an eagle or a
mountain climber.
“Indeed, my lord.” Azrael bowed slightly. “Shall we inspect the Ashen
Fields before the supplies arrive? It would be prudent to familiarize yourself
with the terrain.”
“Lead the way,” I said, grateful for the suggestion. I needed to see this
place for myself before hundreds of tons of supplies and thousands of
desperate demons converged on it. Plus, I needed to get out of this room
before someone asked me a question I couldn’t bluff my way through.

OceanofPDF.com
 12

Lucien/Beau

A
s we left the war room, I couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of terror
and exhilaration. I was completely unqualified for this job—
managing a call center had hardly prepared me for organizing
humanitarian relief for an entire city of demons. It was like being promoted
from “guy who occasionally waters office plants” to “person responsible for
saving the rainforest,” except with more leather outfits and fewer
environmental activists.
Maybe this Dark Lord gig wouldn’t be so bad after all. At least the
demonic middle management seemed competent, if a bit overly formal. And
they’d actually listened to my ideas without questioning my authority or
pointing out that I was clearly making everything up on the spot.
Of course, that might have had something to do with Azrael’s
introduction painting me as some kind of messianic void wizard, but I’d
take what I could get. If being the “Fulfiller of Prophecy” meant these
people would get fed, so be it. I’d been called worse things at the call
center. “Customer Service Representative” still topped the list of soul-
crushing titles.
“How do we get there?” I asked as we walked through the vaulted
corridors that seemed designed specifically to make people with my height
feel like hobbits at a basketball convention. “Horses?” Please say horses.
Nice, normal horses. Not some six-legged nightmare fuel with acid breath
and a taste for human flesh. The bar for “normal transportation” had gotten
dangerously low in my new reality.
 Azrael’s lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, the kind that made
alarm bells ring in my head. “I thought perhaps a more… expedient
method, my lord. Mr. Snuggles could provide an aerial view of your
domain.”
The dragon perked up at the mention of his name. His tail swished with
excitement, nearly knocking over a decorative suit of armor.
“Aerial view,” I repeated, my stomach doing a little flip. “Right.
Because of course my pet dragon flies. Why wouldn’t he? Totally normal.
Just like riding the bus, except the bus is alive and breathes fire and flies
hundreds of feet in the air with nothing between me and a fatal plummet but
some scales and wishful thinking.”
“Mr. Snuggles is exceptionally reliable,” Azrael assured me, clearly
amused by my hesitation. “He has never dropped a rider… intentionally.”
“That adverb is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence,” I muttered.
We made our way to a large balcony overlooking the eastern side of the
castle. Mr. Snuggles bounded ahead, clearly excited for whatever was
coming next. When we reached the open air, he stretched his neck and made
a sound that could only be described as draconic smugness. Then, before
my eyes, he began to grow. His sleek black scales rippled as his form
expanded, neck elongating, wings unfurling from his sides until he stood
before us as a magnificent beast the size of a small bus.
“Show-off,” I said but couldn’t help smiling as Mr. Snuggles preened
under my attention. For a terrifying engine of destruction, he was
surprisingly endearing. Like a deadly fire-breathing puppy with the ability
to level small villages.
I approached the dragon, looking for some kind of saddle or harness but
found only smooth scales. “Um, where exactly do I…?” I felt strong hands
grip my waist from behind. I barely had time to yelp in surprise before
Azrael effortlessly lifted me into the air—like I weighed no more than a
sack of demonic potatoes—and deposited me onto Mr. Snuggles’ back.
“My apologies, my lord,” Azrael said, not sounding apologetic in the
slightest. In fact, he sounded like someone who’d just found a perfectly
legitimate excuse to manhandle his boss and was quite pleased with
himself. “I merely wished to assist.”
His hands lingered at my waist a moment longer than strictly necessary,
his cool fingers somehow burning through the layers of my clothing. Before
I could formulate a suitably snarky response that wouldn’t reveal how my
pulse had just decided to run a sprint, Azrael gracefully vaulted up behind
me, his chest pressing against my back as he settled into position.
I suddenly became very aware of our physical proximity, which was
approximately “zero inches with full body contact.” If this were a romance
novel, this would be the part where the heroine’s breath catches and she
feels a mysterious warmth spreading through her body. As it was, I was
experiencing both those things but trying desperately to attribute them to
pre-flight anxiety rather than the fact that I was essentially sitting in the lap
of a demon who could have moonlighted as a cologne model.
“I recommend holding on firmly, my lord,” he murmured close to my
ear, his cool breath sending an involuntary shiver down my spine that had
absolutely nothing to do with temperature. “The initial ascent can be…
invigorating.”
The way he said “invigorating” made it sound like he was describing
something far more intimate than dragon flight. His arms slid around my
waist, pulling me more securely against him until I could feel every inch
where our bodies connected. For someone with such cool skin, he radiated
heat like a supernatural furnace.
“Wouldn’t want you to fall,” he added, his voice dropping to a register
that made my stomach do gymnastics that would impress Olympic judges.
“I’m quite attached to you, my lord.”
Before I could process the rather comfortable intimacy of our seating
arrangement, the double meaning in his words, or the fact that there was
nothing to hold on to except Mr. Snuggles’ smooth scales, the dragon
bunched his powerful haunches and launched us skyward with a single
mighty thrust. My stomach dropped faster than my GPA after freshman
year, the wind whipping my hair back and stealing the undignified yelp
from my mouth.
I instinctively leaned back against Azrael’s solid chest, my hands
gripping his forearms where they crossed over my abdomen. His hold
tightened in response, secure without being crushing, and I felt rather than
heard his soft chuckle vibrating against my back.
“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” he said, his lips so close to my ear that I could
feel them forming the words.
“That’s one word for it,” I managed, trying not to think about how my
heart was hammering for reasons that had increasingly little to do with our
altitude. “Terrifying, nauseating, and ‘oh God why’ also come to mind.”
 Within seconds, we were soaring high above the Dark Citadel, the
massive fortress spreading out beneath us like a gothic architect’s fever
dream. From this height, I could see the entire layout of Iferona in a way the
map table could never convey.
The city sprawled outward from the citadel in concentric rings, divided
by walls and canals into distinct districts. The Noble Quarter to the west
gleamed with dark polished stone and blue-flamed torches, while the
eastern districts—where we’d toured earlier—were a chaotic jumble of
crumbling structures and narrow, winding streets.
“It’s… beautiful, in a grim sort of way,” I said, my voice carried away
by the wind. Like a post-apocalyptic painting or one of those abandoned
cities reclaimed by nature that photographers love to document. “Dystopian
chic, with a side of medieval suffering.”
“Indeed, my lord,” Azrael replied, his arms tightening slightly around
my waist as Mr. Snuggles banked to the east. The movement pressed us
even closer together, and I became hyperaware of every point of contact
between us. “Iferona was once the jewel of the shadow realms. It can be so
again, under proper leadership.”
No pressure or anything. Just rebuild a fallen civilization while figuring
out how to be a dark lord and not plummet to my death from dragonback.
All in a day’s work. I should update my resume: “Beau Adonis Percival
Quixote Macbeth – Experienced in customer service, Microsoft Excel, and
rebuilding entire shadow kingdoms while cuddling with demon butlers on
dragonback.”
As we glided over the city walls, I could see the stark transition from
urban sprawl to the blasted landscape beyond. The aptly named Ashen
Fields stretched out before us, a wide gray plain bordered by steep hills to
the north and east, a dark forest to the south, and the city walls to the west.
“There.” Azrael pointed over my shoulder, his chin nearly resting on
me. “The natural bowl formation provides shelter from the northern winds
and makes the area easily defensible.”
He was right. The geography was perfect for a relief camp—flat terrain
for setting up tents, natural barriers on three sides, and close proximity to
the city. As we descended in lazy spirals, I noticed a clear stream cutting
through the northern edge of the field, emptying into a small lake to the
southeast.
 Mr. Snuggles took a particularly sharp turn, and I was thrust back
against Azrael’s chest. His arm tightened around me, his hand splaying
possessively across my abdomen.
“Careful, my lord,” he murmured, his voice carrying a hint of
something that sounded suspiciously like satisfaction. “Dragon flight can
be… unpredictable.”
I had a sneaking suspicion Mr. Snuggles was taking the scenic route on
purpose, making extra turns and dips that required Azrael to hold me even
closer. The dragon and butler were clearly in cahoots, and I was caught in
the middle of their demonic conspiracy to give me heart palpitations.
“Is that water clean?” I asked, desperately trying to focus on anything
other than how Azrael’s thumb was now tracing small circles against my
side. In a city where everything seemed to be varying degrees of toxic,
polluted, or cursed, a clean water source would be invaluable.
“The Midnight Stream is one of the few water sources not yet tainted by
the city’s waste,” Azrael replied, his voice a velvet rumble against my back.
“It springs from the Obsidian Mountains and feeds the Twilight Lake before
continuing underground.”
“Perfect,” I said, my mind racing with possibilities, though admittedly
running on a parallel track to the part that was cataloging every subtle
movement of Azrael’s hands. “We can set up the water purification stations
near the stream. It’ll supplement the water we’re bringing in.” Look at me,
thinking about water purification like I hadn’t just learned what the Ashen
Fields were ten minutes ago. I was either becoming a surprisingly
competent dark lord or developing an impressive capacity for bullshit.
Probably both.
Mr. Snuggles landed with surprising gentleness for a creature his size,
his claws barely disturbing the gray soil of the Ashen Fields. Azrael slid
down first, his body dragging against mine in a way that couldn’t possibly
be accidental, before reaching up to help me dismount. His hands encircled
my waist again, and he lifted me from the dragon’s back with effortless
strength, holding me suspended for a moment longer than necessary before
setting me gently on the ground.
“Thank you for the smooth ride, Mr. Snuggles,” I said, patting the
dragon’s neck and trying to ignore how my skin still tingled where Azrael
had touched me. “Next time maybe a little less aerial acrobatics, though?
My stomach isn’t built for roller-coaster simulations.”
 The dragon made a sound that was suspiciously like a snicker.
I took a moment to survey the area on foot, partly to get my bearings
and partly to put a little distance between myself and Azrael’s magnetic
presence. The ground was firm but not hard, ideal for tent stakes. The field
was large enough to accommodate thousands, with natural divisions created
by gentle rises and shallow depressions. The air was cooler here than in the
city, with a clean scent that was a welcome change from the urban miasma
of “eau de medieval sewage.”
“This is perfect,” I said, already mentally mapping out where everything
would go, as if I had any real expertise in camp planning beyond that one
time I helped set up a music festival booth for the college radio station.
“Main distribution in the center, medical tents near the stream for clean
water access, family shelters in the southern section where the ground rises
slightly—better drainage if it rains.”
“A sound strategy, my lord.” Azrael nodded, appearing at my side with
that silent grace that would make ninjas jealous. “Though I must point out
the proximity of the Howling Forest.” He gestured to the dark tree line to
the south. “It harbors… creatures.”
Of course it did. Because nothing in this realm could just be normal. It
couldn’t be the “Pleasant Woods” or the “Friendly Forest.” No, it had to be
the “Howling Forest,” which sounded like the setting for a horror movie
where college students go missing one by one, leaving behind nothing but
their perfectly arranged internal organs and a single cryptic selfie.
“Dangerous ones?” I asked, trying to sound casual rather than internally
screaming.
“Some. Mostly scavengers and lesser beasts, though occasionally
something larger ventures forth. The truly dangerous monsters remain
deeper in the forest.”
Fantastic. So we’d be setting up our refugee camp next to Monster
Central Station. I frowned, looking at the distance between the planned
camp area and the forest edge. It was close enough that I could make out
individual trees—way too close for comfort if those trees concealed
anything with fangs, claws, or a general appetite for demon flesh.
“We’ll need a defensive perimeter,” I said, channeling every tower
defense game I’d ever played. “Not just guards but physical barriers.”
Preferably something tall, sturdy, and covered in spikes. Or maybe
flamethrowers. Did medieval fantasy realms have flamethrowers? Probably
not, but they did have dragons…
“General Smashington’s forces could construct a palisade within hours,”
Azrael suggested. “Though it would be temporary at best.”
“Better than nothing,” I said, mentally calculating how many resource
points it would take to upgrade from wooden palisade to stone wall. Wait,
this wasn’t a game. I couldn’t just click an upgrade button and watch little
workers scurry around constructing fortifications. Though that would be
extremely convenient right about now. “And in the future, maybe we could
clear more of the forest edge, create a proper buffer zone.” I paused, a
thought occurring to me. “What kind of creatures live in there, exactly?”
Azrael seemed surprised by the question, as if the specific taxonomy of
forest monsters was an unusual concern for a dark lord. “Various species,
my lord. Shadow wolves, spine-backed boars, occasionally a thorn bear or
venom stag. The deeper forests hold greater threats—soul leeches, void
serpents, and worse.”
These names sounded like rejected Pokémon designs from the
“Nightmare Edition.” But something caught my attention. “Spine-backed
boars and venom stags?” I repeated, an idea forming. “Are they edible?”
Azrael blinked, clearly thrown by the question. “Edible, my lord? I
suppose… yes, though their meat is often bitter or mildly toxic without
proper preparation. The nobles occasionally hunt them for sport but rarely
for consumption when other options exist.”
“But with proper preparation, they could be food sources?” I pressed. I
was thinking of all those survival shows where people ate things that looked
disgusting but were apparently nutritious once you got past the slime,
poison, or wriggling. The “Bear Grylls approach to demonic cuisine,” if you
will.
“In theory, yes. The spine-boars in particular are similar to the swine
raised in human realms, though larger and more aggressive. Their meat,
when properly cured to remove the bitter elements, is quite rich.”
I smiled, already seeing possibilities. “So with the right techniques, we
could potentially domesticate or farm these creatures? Turn them from
threats into resources?” It was the ultimate sustainability project—convert
your enemies into dinner. From menace to menu in five easy steps.
Azrael looked genuinely taken aback, as if I’d suggested we teach the
demons to tap dance. “Domesticate monsters, my lord? That is… an
unprecedented concept. Most are too aggressive or inherently magical to be
treated as mere livestock.”
“The keyword is ‘most,’” I said, walking toward the forest edge for a
better look. “But some might be manageable. Humans domesticated
aurochs into cattle, wolves into dogs. Why not spine-boars into… whatever
the demonic equivalent of premium pork would be?” Void bacon? Shadow
ham? The marketing possibilities were endless. “Just imagine the menu:
‘Infernal Bacon – So good it’s sinful.’”
“A fascinating notion,” Azrael conceded, following close behind me.
His proximity was like a magnetic field—I could feel him even when I
wasn’t looking. “Though it would require expertise we currently lack.”
“Something to consider for the future,” I said, making a mental note to
look into monster husbandry once the immediate crisis was handled. If we
could turn threats into food sources, it would solve two problems at once.
Plus, “Monster Rancher” would make a great title for my dark lord resume,
right under “Averted Mass Starvation” and “Didn’t Get Eaten By Dragon
(So Far).”
As we approached the tree line, I noticed movement in the shadows—
quick, furtive shapes darting between the gnarled trunks. Nothing large but
definitely alive. My imagination helpfully supplied images of razor-toothed
creatures with glowing eyes and a taste for human flesh, seasoned with a
side of terror and garnished with my screams.
“We should return to the castle, my lord,” Azrael suggested, eyeing the
forest warily. His hand came to rest on the small of my back, a touch that
was both protective and possessive. “The supplies will be arriving soon, and
your presence will be expected.”
I nodded, reluctantly turning away from the forest. Part of me wanted to
investigate further, but the more sensible part—the part that had watched
enough horror movies to know what happens to the curious character who
wanders into the dark woods—agreed with Azrael. “You’re right. But I
want scouts monitoring this area. If there’s any unusual activity from the
forest, I want to know immediately.”
“As you command, my lord.”
As we walked back to where Mr. Snuggles waited, I took one last look
at the Ashen Fields. By tomorrow, this empty space would be transformed
into a bustling relief camp, providing food, shelter, and hope to thousands
of demons who had gone too long without all three.
 It was a start—a small one, perhaps, in the grand scheme of rebuilding a
kingdom, but a start nonetheless. Feed the people first, then worry about
infrastructure, economy, and defense. One step at a time. Like eating an
elephant, except the elephant is a massive, centuries-old dark kingdom with
crumbling infrastructure and starving citizens. Simple, right?
“My lord,” Azrael interrupted my thoughts, “may I ask a question?”
“Of course.” As long as it wasn’t “Do you have any idea what you’re
doing?” because the answer to that was a resounding “absolutely not.” Or
possibly “I’m making this up as I go and hoping nobody notices.”
“These plans of yours—the relief camp, the distribution systems, even
the notion of domesticating monsters—they are unlike anything in Iferona’s
history. Where did you acquire such… innovative concepts during your
slumber?”
I hesitated, unsure how to answer without revealing too much. “Let’s
just say I had a lot of time to think,” I finally replied. “And sometimes, the
best solutions come from unexpected places.” Like binge-watching post-
apocalyptic survival shows while eating microwave burritos or playing
resource management games until three a.m. on a work night.
Azrael studied me with those unsettling crimson eyes, and for a
moment, I feared he would press further. Instead, he simply bowed.
“Indeed, my lord. Most unexpected and most welcome.”
As we prepared to return, Azrael moved toward me with obvious intent
and swept me up into his arms with supernatural ease. I let out an
undignified squeak that I would later deny to my dying day.
“Allow me to assist you once more, my lord,” he said, his face close
enough that I could see flecks of darker red in his irises, like garnets
suspended in blood. They were actually quite beautiful, in a terrifying,
otherworldly way. “Dragon mounting can be… treacherous for the
inexperienced.”
“I can climb up myself,” I protested, feeling ridiculous being carried
like a damsel in a gothic romance novel. If my gaming buddies could see
me now, I’d never hear the end of it. “I managed to climb onto the office
printer that one time it ate my quarterly report. This can’t be much
different.”
“Of course you can, my lord,” Azrael replied smoothly, not making any
move to put me down. His eyes gleamed with something that looked
suspiciously like amusement mixed with something darker, hungrier. “But
why should you exert yourself when I am here to serve?”
He deposited me onto Mr. Snuggles’ back and vaulted up behind me in
one fluid motion before I could form a coherent response. This time, his
arms wrapped around my waist without pretense, pulling me firmly against
his chest until we were pressed together from shoulder to hip. The
proximity sent a confusing mix of signals through my body—part alarm,
part something else I wasn’t ready to examine too closely but that made my
pulse race and my skin heat despite Azrael’s cool touch.
“For safety, my lord,” he murmured, his cool breath tickling my ear and
sending shivers down my spine that had absolutely nothing to do with
temperature. “The return journey can be… turbulent.”
As if on cue, Mr. Snuggles launched us skyward with even more
enthusiasm than before, forcing me back against Azrael’s chest with a gasp.
His arms tightened around me, one hand splayed possessively across my
abdomen while the other rested dangerously close to my thigh. The dragon
banked sharply, and I practically melted into Azrael’s embrace, my head
falling back against his shoulder.
“Comfortable, my lord?” he asked, his voice a velvet rumble against my
ear. I could have sworn his lips brushed my temple, but it might have been
the wind. Probably the wind. Definitely the wind. Maybe.
“Just peachy,” I managed, my voice embarrassingly breathless.
“Nothing says ‘comfort’ like being sandwiched between a dragon and a
demon while hundreds of feet in the air.”
His soft chuckle vibrated against my back, and I felt rather than saw his
smile. “I can think of worse situations to be in, my lord.”
Mr. Snuggles carried us back toward the Dark Citadel where, in just a
few hours, the first test of my interdimensional shopping abilities would
either cement my reputation as a miracle-working dark lord or expose me as
the fraud I feared I was.
No pressure or anything. Just the fate of an entire kingdom resting on
my ability to place what was essentially the largest online order in history.
I’d faced worse odds, though. Like that time I tried to explain to my parents
why a business degree was a practical choice for my future. This would be a
piece of cake in comparison.
Hopefully.
Maybe.
Oh God, what had I gotten myself into?

OceanofPDF.com
 13

Lucien/Beau

W
ord spread through the castle like wildfire. By the time the four-
hour mark approached, it seemed every demon in the Dark
Citadel had found a reason to be in or near the eastern courtyard.
They lined the surrounding balconies, filled the windows, and
crowded the courtyard itself, leaving only a large clear space in the center
where Azrael had meticulously marked out a receiving area.
I stood on the main balcony overlooking the courtyard, trying to project
calm confidence while internally wondering if I’d hallucinated the entire
OpenSesame experience. What if nothing appeared? What if I’d just
mobilized the entire castle for nothing?
“One minute remaining, my lord,” Azrael murmured beside me,
checking a complicated-looking timepiece that appeared to run on small
insects instead of gears.
The crowd below had fallen silent, all eyes fixed on the empty space in
the courtyard. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife—or
whatever the demonic equivalent of a knife was. Probably something with
more spikes and a name like “Soul-Render” or “Hope-Eviscerator.”
“Thirty seconds,” Azrael announced.
I held my breath. This was it—either the moment I cemented my
reputation as an all-powerful dark lord or the beginning of my career as the
realm’s biggest disappointment since “Diet Blood” (which I sincerely hoped
wasn’t a real product but suspected probably was).
 “Ten seconds.”
The crowd began counting down in unison, their voices creating an
eerie chorus that echoed through the courtyard.
“Five… four… three… two… one…”
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. My stomach dropped.
Then the air in the courtyard shimmered, like heat rising from pavement
on a summer day. A faint blue glow appeared about twenty feet above the
ground, expanding rapidly into a swirling portal of light. Through it, I could
see what looked like a massive warehouse filled with stacked packages.
The demons gasped collectively. Some fell to their knees. Others made
warding gestures. A few simply stood with mouths agape.
Just before the packages began to descend, a familiar blue interface
window briefly materialized at the edge of the portal, visible only to me.
[Helpdesk Supreme delivery in progress. Valued customer’s order #DL-
001-ER-473 has arrived. This unit reminds valued customer that appropriate
storage of perishable items is recommended for optimal nutritional benefit.
Helpdesk Supreme observes that 94.7% of assembled subjects appear to be
experiencing religious awe at standard delivery protocol. Would you like
this unit to enhance the visual effects for maximum impressiveness?]
I suppressed a smile and whispered, “Just deliver the goods, Supremo.
No need for theatrics.”
[Helpdesk Supreme acknowledges customer input. However, this unit’s
market research indicates that ruler credibility is enhanced by 73.2% when
subjects witness impressive displays of power. Implementing Standard Dark
Lord Delivery Enhancement Protocol.]
“Wait, what? No, I didn’t⁠—”
Before I could finish protesting, the portal’s blue glow intensified
dramatically, sending rays of light shooting across the courtyard. The
swirling energy began to pulse rhythmically, almost like a heartbeat, and
faint whispers in an unknown language echoed from within.
The demons’ reactions shifted from awe to outright worship. Several
collapsed face-first onto the ground, while others began chanting my name
in fervent prayer.
[Visual enhancement successful. Subject reverence metrics have
increased by 82.4%. Helpdesk Supreme recommends maintaining
appropriately imperious expression during delivery.]
 “I’m going to delete your customer satisfaction protocols,” I muttered
under my breath.
[Helpdesk Supreme does not recommend this course of action, as it
would violate Section 47.3 of your user agreement. Proceeding with
delivery.]
The packages began to descend, but now each one was surrounded by
miniature lightning that crackled harmlessly around the boxes. They didn’t
simply float downward—they performed an elaborate choreographed
dance, spinning and weaving around each other in perfect synchronization
before settling into their designated positions.
The portal remained open as more supplies continued to emerge,
creating towers of boxes that should have been physically impossible to
balance but somehow remained perfectly stable. The entire process was
silent except for the occasional soft hum of energy from the portal itself and
the theatrical thunderclaps that accompanied particularly large deliveries.
“The void provides,” someone whispered reverently behind me, and the
phrase was picked up and repeated throughout the crowd. “The void
provides!”
I watched in equal parts amazement, relief, and exasperation. It had
worked, but Supremo had turned a simple delivery into a religious
experience. At this rate, they’d be building shrines to me by nightfall.
“Magnificent,” Azrael breathed beside me, his usual composure
cracking to reveal genuine awe. “In all my centuries of service, I have never
witnessed such mastery of void manipulation.”
I decided not to correct his misconception that I was personally
manifesting all this through sheer magical might. Let him think I was
channeling cosmic energies instead of just dealing with an interdimensional
shopping assistant with a flair for the dramatic.
[Delivery 27% complete. Would valued customer like to add dramatic
music to further enhance the experience?]
“Absolutely not,” I whispered firmly.
[Helpdesk Supreme has already taken the liberty of selecting an
appropriate soundtrack. Market research indicates that ominous choral
arrangements increase ruler approval ratings by up to 47%.]
Before I could object again, the air filled with the sound of an invisible
choir singing in deep, resonant tones that seemed to vibrate through the
very stones of the courtyard.
 The effect on the demons was immediate and dramatic. Several of the
smaller imps began swaying in rhythm with the music, their eyes glazed
over in rapture. A group of shadow demons melted into puddles of darkness
before reforming in more reverent postures. Even General Smashington,
stoic warrior that he was, had closed his eyes and was nodding his massive
head in time with the otherworldly melody.
Duke Splashypants raised his webbed hands toward the portal, water
streaming from his fingertips as he gurgled something that sounded
suspiciously like a hymn. The droplets froze in midair, forming a glittering
constellation that reflected the blue light in dazzling patterns across the
courtyard walls.
“All hail the Master of the Void!” someone shouted from the back of the
crowd, and the cry was taken up by others until it became a rhythmic chant
that somehow harmonized perfectly with the mysterious choir.
I was going to have a very long talk with Supremo about boundaries
later.
The packages continued their choreographed descent, the music
swelling dramatically with each new wave of supplies. By the time the final
crate settled into place with a perfectly timed musical crescendo, the entire
courtyard had been transformed into what looked like an elaborate religious
ceremony centered around cardboard boxes and plastic-wrapped pallets.
The portal pulsed once, then collapsed in on itself with a soft pop that
somehow managed to sound both mundane and cosmic at the same time.
The music faded, leaving behind an expectant silence.
[Delivery complete. Customer satisfaction survey will be available in
your account within 24 hours. Helpdesk Supreme reminds valued customer
that positive ratings contribute to improved service metrics.]
For a moment, absolute silence reigned. Then, as if on cue, every demon
in sight dropped to their knees, foreheads pressed to the ground in the most
dramatic display of subservience I’d ever witnessed.
“ALL HAIL THE DARK LORD!” they chanted in unison, the sound
reverberating through the castle. “MASTER OF THE VOID! BRINGER
OF BOUNTY! FULFILLER OF PROPHECY!”
At some point, I should probably find out what this prophecy actually
said.
I raised my hands, feeling both ridiculous and strangely powerful.
“Rise, my loyal subjects. The bounty of the void awaits.”
 As the demons stood, I descended the stairs from the balcony to the
courtyard, Azrael following close behind. The crowd parted before me like
the Red Sea before Moses, many still bowing or making reverent gestures
as I passed.
I approached the nearest stack of supplies—cases of cup noodles in
various flavors, their colorful packaging visible through the clear plastic
wrapping. The demons watched with bated breath as I examined the
mysterious objects from beyond.
“Let us inspect the bounty,” I announced, trying to sound appropriately
dark-lordish. “Bring me one of each type of provision.”
Several servants rushed forward, each grabbing different packages and
bringing them to a nearby table that someone had hastily set up. Within
minutes, I had samples of everything: cup noodles, protein bars, bread,
bottled water, hygiene kits, and more.
I picked up a cup of instant ramen—spicy chicken flavor—and held it
up for all to see. “This,” I announced, “is a powerful sustenance from the
void realms. It contains energies that will restore strength and vitality to
even the weakest among us.”
The demons stared at the cup with awe and confusion. I peeled back the
lid partway, revealing the dried noodles and seasoning packet inside.
“Behold,” I continued, “the magic is sealed within, preserved until the
moment of consumption. It requires only hot water to release its power.”
I gestured to one of the water heaters that had arrived with the supplies.
“Bring that forward and fill it with water.”
While servants scrambled to comply, I opened a package of sliced
bread. The demons closest to me gasped at the sight of the perfectly
uniform, soft white slices.
“The Bread of Vitality,” I improvised, holding up a slice. “Unlike your
common loaves, this bread is infused with energies that strengthen the body
and sharpen the mind.”
I broke off a small piece and popped it into my mouth, chewing
thoughtfully. It was just regular white bread, but to these demons who were
used to whatever passed for bread in this realm—probably dense, hard
loaves made from whatever grain-adjacent substance they could grow in
perpetual twilight—it might as well have been ambrosia.
“Would anyone care to sample the Bread of Vitality?” I asked, offering
the loaf.
 There was a moment of hesitation, then Magister Wiggles stepped
forward, his translucent skin rippling with swirling magical patterns. “I
would be honored, my lord, to taste the fruits of your void mastery.”
I handed him a slice, which he examined with scholarly intensity before
taking a small, cautious bite. His eyes widened immediately, the swirling
patterns beneath his skin accelerating wildly.
“By the ancient shadows,” he whispered, then took another, larger bite.
“It’s… it’s incredible! So soft, yet substantial. Sweet, yet not cloying.” He
turned to the crowd, holding up the remaining bread like it was a holy relic.
“The Dark Lord has indeed brought us wonders beyond imagination!”
A murmur ran through the crowd. More demons stepped forward, eager
to try this miraculous food. I broke the loaf into pieces, distributing them
among the department heads and their chief lieutenants.
Meanwhile, the water heater had been set up and was now bubbling
away. I returned to the cup noodle, removed the lid completely, and poured
hot water up to the line inside.
“Now we wait,” I announced dramatically. “The void energies require
precisely three minutes to activate.”
The demons watched in fascinated silence as I replaced the lid and set
the cup on the table. You could have heard a pin drop in that courtyard as
everyone stared at the unassuming cup of instant ramen like it might start
performing a musical number at any moment.
While we waited, I opened one of the bottled waters, unscrewing the
cap with a theatrical flourish. “The Waters of Purity,” I declared, taking a
sip. “Cleansed by void energies, free of all taint and contamination.”
I passed the bottle to Lady Shadowfax, whose shadowy form seemed to
solidify slightly as she accepted it. She examined the clear plastic container
with fascination before taking a delicate sip.
Her glowing eyes widened. “It is… untainted,” she whispered. “No
sulfur, no mineral harshness, no trace of shadow essence or blood algae.”
She took another, longer drink. “It is simply… water. Perfect water.”
The three minutes finally elapsed, and I returned to the cup noodle with
all the gravity of a priest performing a sacred ritual. I removed the lid,
revealing the now-softened noodles in their steaming broth.
“The transformation is complete,” I announced, stirring the noodles
with the provided plastic fork. I took a bite, savoring the familiar,
artificially enhanced spicy chicken flavor that had sustained me through
countless late-night gaming sessions in my previous life.
“Mmm,” I said, genuinely enjoying the taste. “The void energies are
potent indeed.”
I offered the cup to General Smashington, who had been watching the
proceedings with military discipline but undisguised curiosity. His massive
four-armed frame dwarfed the cup as he accepted it, sniffing the steam
cautiously before taking a bite.
The effect was immediate and dramatic. The general’s eyes widened,
then began to glow with an intensity I hadn’t seen before. He straightened
to his full height, his obsidian skin seeming to shimmer with new energy.
“By the dark abyss,” he rumbled, his voice somehow even deeper than
usual. “I feel… power flowing through me! The void sustenance—it
strengthens not just the body, but the spirit!”
He flexed his arms, and to my astonishment, the obsidian-like material
of his skin actually cracked slightly, revealing glowing red energy beneath
that quickly sealed itself, leaving his arms looking more defined, more
powerful than before.
“What the…” I muttered, then caught myself. “I mean, yes! The void
energies are transforming you, General. Your true potential is being
unlocked.”
Was the food actually magical? Or was this some kind of placebo
effect? I hadn’t ordered enchanted ramen—just regular cup noodles. But
then again, this was a fantasy world with actual magic. Maybe the
interdimensional shipping process had imbued the food with special
properties?
More demons crowded forward, eager to try the miraculous food that
had visibly strengthened their general. I quickly organized an impromptu
tasting station, having servants prepare more cup noodles and distribute
bread, protein bars, and water to the assembled crowd.
The results were consistent and astonishing. Each demon who
consumed the “void provisions” experienced some kind of enhancement—
increased strength, brighter glowing eyes, more vibrant magical auras. Even
the smallest imp demons stood taller, their spindly limbs suddenly capable
of lifting crates that should have been beyond their capacity.
“My lord,” Azrael murmured beside me, “the void sustenance appears
to be increasing their magical essence. Their mana reserves are visibly
expanding.”
“Yes, exactly as I… intended,” I replied, making a mental note to order
exclusively from OpenSesame from now on. Apparently, their food came
with magical performance enhancers built in. The FDA would have a field
day.
Duke Splashypants approached, his webbed hands clutching an empty
cup noodle container. The gills on his neck were flaring with excitement,
and the water that constantly dripped from his amphibious form now
seemed to glisten with tiny sparks of blue energy.
“My lord,” he gurgled, “the Void Soup has awakened ancient powers
within my aquatic lineage! The Moist Dominion shall serve you with
renewed vigor!”
“Excellent,” I replied, trying not to laugh at the phrase ‘Moist
Dominion’ for the hundredth time. “Your loyalty will be remembered.”
A small commotion drew my attention to the far side of the courtyard,
where a group of lower-ranking demons was excitedly examining one of the
nutritional supplement bottles designed for the severely malnourished. One
of them, a sickly-looking demon with translucent skin and visible bones,
had apparently consumed some.
Before my eyes, the demon’s form began to change. His hunched
posture straightened, his skin took on a healthier hue, and the bones that had
protruded sharply beneath his skin receded as muscle and tissue formed.
Within minutes, he looked like an entirely different creature—vibrant,
strong, and literally glowing with vitality.
“The Elixir of Transformation!” someone shouted. “The Dark Lord has
brought us the legendary elixir!”
Oh boy. This was getting out of hand. If regular cup noodles and protein
bars were causing this kind of reaction, what would the actual medical
supplies do?
“These provisions must be distributed carefully,” I announced loudly.
“The most potent sustenance must be reserved for those in greatest need.
The rest will be shared equally among all citizens.”
I turned to General Smashington, who was still flexing his newly
enhanced muscles. “General, prepare your troops to transport these supplies
to the Ashen Fields. The strongest void sustenance should be delivered
directly to Healer 47 for distribution to the most vulnerable.”
 “At once, my lord!” the general boomed, his voice carrying easily over
the excited chatter of the crowd.
I pulled Azrael aside. “We need to control this situation,” I said quietly.
“If these supplies are having such dramatic effects, they could cause chaos
if not properly managed.”
Azrael nodded, his crimson eyes fixed on a group of servants who were
practically arm wrestling for the chance to try a protein bar. “Indeed, my
lord. Such power must be distributed with care. Perhaps we should establish
stricter protocols for the camp?”
“Agreed. And we need to understand exactly what these ‘void
provisions’ are doing. Have Magister Wiggles study them—discreetly.”
As the supplies began to be loaded onto wagons for transport, I couldn’t
help but notice several demons surreptitiously pocketing extra cup noodles
or protein bars. One particularly sneaky imp had somehow managed to stuff
three packages of instant ramen into his tunic without being noticed by
anyone but me.
Great. I’d just inadvertently created a black market for cup noodles. If
these things really did enhance magical abilities, they’d be worth their
weight in gold to the demons. I’d have to monitor the situation carefully to
prevent hoarding or exploitation.
But there was also opportunity here. If I could control the supply of
these “void provisions,” I’d have another lever of power besides just being
the “prophesied Dark Lord.” And if I could figure out why ordinary human
food was having such dramatic effects on demons, maybe I could replicate
or enhance the process.
“Azrael,” I said, “I think we should establish a permanent trade route to
the void realms. These provisions could transform our kingdom.”
“A most wise decision, my lord,” Azrael replied, bowing deeply. “Your
mastery of void commerce will surely cement Iferona’s power among the
shadow realms.”
I nodded sagely, as if I’d planned this all along instead of stumbling into
it through a cosmic shopping spree. “Indeed. Perhaps a dedicated facility
for receiving and distributing void goods. A… Void Emporium, if you will.”
“Brilliant, my lord. The demons will flock to your Void Emporium,
strengthening both themselves and your rule.”
I suppressed a smile at the thought of opening what was essentially a 7-
Eleven in a demonic realm. “The Void Emporium will have to wait,
however. For now, our priority is the relief camp.”
I raised my voice to address the courtyard at large. “My loyal subjects!
The void has provided for us today, but this is merely the beginning. Follow
the distribution plan we have established, and soon all citizens of Iferona
will feel the benefits of these provisions. Go forth and prepare the Ashen
Fields!”
The demons cheered, many still glowing or vibrating with their newly
enhanced energies. They set to work with unprecedented efficiency, loading
wagons and forming organized lines without a single squabble or power
struggle—a minor miracle in itself.
General Smashington stepped forward. “Your orders, my lord? Shall we
begin transport to the Ashen Fields?”
I nodded, trying to look like this was all according to plan rather than a
completely unexpected magical side effect. “Proceed as discussed. Security
teams first, then setup crews.”
The demons leaped into action with surprising efficiency. Soldiers
began loading supplies onto wagons, while others rushed ahead to prepare
the relief site. The courtyard transformed into a hive of purposeful activity.
“I must say, my lord,” Azrael commented as we watched, “your
strategic acumen has grown as impressive as your magical prowess. To
think of establishing a relief camp outside the city… most innovative.”
“Just practical problem-solving,” I replied, trying to sound modest
rather than terrified by the weight of responsibility I’d just taken on.
“And to manifest not only food but shelter, hygiene supplies, and
medical equipment… all with such potent magical enhancements…”
Azrael’s eyes had taken on that unsettling glow again. “Your power has
evolved beyond anything in our recorded history.”
I cleared my throat uncomfortably. “Yes, well… a Dark Lord must be
versatile.”
“Indeed,” Azrael murmured, his gaze lingering on me with an intensity
that made me acutely aware of how close he was standing. “Most versatile.”
I quickly changed the subject. “We should go to the Ashen Fields. I
want to oversee the camp setup personally.”
“Of course, my lord. I shall have your shadow steed prepared
immediately.”
Shadow steed. Right. Because a normal horse would be too mundane
for a dark lord. I just hoped it wasn’t another pet I’d named something
ridiculous like “Sir Gallopsalot” or “Hooves McGee.”
As we left the balcony, I glanced back at the courtyard, now bustling
with purposeful activity. For the first time since arriving in this world, I felt
like I might actually be able to do some good here. It wasn’t what I’d
expected from being a dark lord, but maybe that was the point.
Maybe being a dark lord wasn’t about terrorizing the populace and
cackling maniacally from atop a throne of skulls. Maybe it was about using
whatever power you had—whether magical abilities or just an
interdimensional shopping app with unexpected magical side effects—to
help those who needed it.
Or maybe I was overthinking it, and I should just enjoy the fact that I
now had demons bowing and scraping and calling me the “Master of the
Void” because I could order magic-enhancing cup noodles in bulk.
Either way, I had a relief camp to set up and forty thousand demons to
feed. Dark Lordship, it turned out, came with a surprising amount of
administrative work—and apparently, a side business in magical fast food.

OceanofPDF.com
 14

Azrael

T
he rabble swarmed across the Ashen Fields like insects, their bodies
bending to tasks they had no right to perform in the presence of
divinity. Azrael watched them from the shadows of a newly erected
tent, his crimson gaze cataloging each movement, each failure, each
moment that could—should—have been punished with exquisite pain.
And yet his master allowed it. Encouraged it, even.
Lord Lucien stood at the center of this chaos, silver hair catching the
morning light like a beacon. He gestured animatedly, explaining something
about water distribution to creatures so far beneath him they should have
been honored merely to breathe the same air. His perfect hands—hands
Azrael had preserved through centuries with oils pressed from rare flowers
that bloomed only in moonlight—were smudged with common dirt.
The sight sent a tremor of distress through Azrael’s perfect composure.
He would need to prepare a special cleansing ritual tonight—perhaps the
midnight bloom essence that had always made Lucien’s skin glow with
such ethereal beauty afterward.
“No, the water tanks need to be higher up,” his lord was saying,
pointing to a natural rise in the terrain. “Trust me, gravity is your friend
here. Water goes down, not up—basic physics. Or magic. Whatever you
guys call it.”
The workers nodded eagerly, their eyes shining with something other
than the terror they should rightfully feel. Instead, they looked… grateful.
The wrongness of it scraped against Azrael’s sensibilities like a blade
against bone.
For centuries, Azrael had cultivated fear like a precious garden. Fear
was clean. Fear was efficient. Fear ensured that no hand would ever reach
toward his lord without trembling, that no eye would ever meet that
sapphire gaze without immediately lowering in submission. He had
personally removed the eyes of seventeen servants who had dared to stare
too long at Lord Lucien’s beauty. Those eyes now floated in crystal vials in
his private collection, preserved at the exact moment their owners realized
their transgression.
Now these common laborers were smiling at his lord. Smiling.
He could have their lips removed. It would be simple enough—a quick
slash of his blade in the night, a whispered warning about proper respect.
He had done it before, during the early years of Lord Lucien’s reign, when
the court needed to be taught proper etiquette. The resulting collection of
preserved lips had been quite artistic, arranged by shade and fullness in a
special display case.
But his lord would not approve. Not this new Lucien, with his strange
ideas and stranger compassion.
Azrael moved forward with silent grace, closing the distance between
himself and his master with measured steps. Even this—this proximity—
was a privilege he had been denied for centuries. To exist in Lucien’s
presence, to breathe the same air, to be near enough to catch his scent… it
was intoxicating. A drug more potent than any demon brew.
“My lord,” he said, his voice modulated to perfect respectful deference
despite the storm of possessiveness raging beneath his skin. “The first
groups of citizens are being escorted from the city. They will arrive within
the hour. Perhaps you would prefer to observe from a more… appropriate
position?” He gestured toward a small pavilion that had been erected on a
rise overlooking the camp—a command post befitting Lord Lucien’s
station. Far from the grasping hands and unworthy eyes of the common
rabble.
Lord Lucien straightened, wiping a smudge of ash from his hands. The
casual disregard for his own perfection sent another wave of distress
through Azrael. In the past, Lucien had been meticulous about his
appearance, understanding that every aspect of his presentation reinforced
his authority. Azrael had spent centuries preserving that perfection, only to
watch his lord deliberately soil it with common labor.
“I can see better from down here,” Lord Lucien replied, his sapphire
eyes scanning the bustling activity around them. “Besides, I want to make
sure the food distribution system actually works. Last thing we need is
some kind of demonic Black Friday situation when people start arriving.”
“Black… Friday, my lord?” Azrael queried, adding another peculiar
phrase to his mental catalog. Each strange reference was preserved perfectly
in his memory, examined like a rare specimen, another clue to the mystery
of his lord’s transformation. Someday, when Lucien trusted him enough,
perhaps he would explain these curious terms. Azrael would listen with
perfect attention, committing every word to memory, treasuring each
syllable from those perfect lips.
“Trust me, you don’t want to know. Just imagine a bunch of hangry
demons fighting over the last cup noodle. Not pretty.”
“Of course, my lord.” Azrael bowed slightly, the movement precise and
elegant despite the turmoil within. “Though such details are typically
beneath your concern. Your servants exist to handle these… mundanities.”
The thought of Lord Lucien—his Lord Lucien, whose magnificence he had
preserved through centuries of devoted service—concerning himself with
the feeding of common rabble was… disturbing. Like watching a god stoop
to clean a mortal’s hovel.
Lord Lucien gave him a peculiar look—one Azrael couldn’t quite
decipher despite centuries of studying his master’s expressions. This new
Lucien had expressions Azrael had never seen before, nuances he hadn’t
cataloged. It was both fascinating and terrifying, like discovering a new
wing in a familiar castle.
“Nothing about keeping my people fed is beneath me, Azrael. Seriously,
that whole ‘too important to care’ thing is so last century.”
My people. Not my subjects. Not my servants. Not even my property.
The distinction sent a ripple of unease through Azrael’s carefully
constructed worldview. His lord had always viewed his subjects as
possessions—tools to be used, resources to be exploited, occasionally toys
to be broken when boredom set in.
This… care… was unprecedented. Intriguing. Potentially dangerous.
“As you say, my lord.” Azrael concealed his confusion behind perfect
composure, a skill honed through millennia of service. If Lord Lucien
wished to play benevolent ruler, then Azrael would adapt accordingly. His
devotion was absolute, unwavering, eternal—regardless of which facet of
his lord’s personality currently dominated. “The registration protocols have
been established according to your specifications. Each family or pod will
receive identification tokens that will guide them to the appropriate
distribution points.”
“Great. And the medical area? Is Healer 47 set up with the nutritional
supplements?” Lord Lucien asked, his eyes scanning the bustling activity
around the medical tents.
“Yes, my lord. She appears… overwhelmed by the quality of the
supplies you have provided. I believe she may have wept.” Azrael relayed
this with undisguised distaste. Such emotional displays were unseemly,
unprofessional. In the past, he would have quietly removed the moth demon
from her position for such weakness, replacing her with someone
possessing more appropriate composure. He had a collection of moth wings
in his private chambers—delicate, iridescent things harvested from healers
who had failed to maintain proper decorum in his lord’s presence.
But this new Lucien seemed to appreciate emotional displays. Another
peculiarity to be studied, cataloged, understood.
Lord Lucien smiled—a genuine expression that transformed his features
from merely beautiful to radiant. The sight struck Azrael like a physical
blow, momentarily stealing his breath. How many centuries had he waited
to see that smile again? How many nights had he spent staring at paintings
that captured only a pale shadow of its brilliance? He had killed the artists
afterward, of course—no one else deserved to hold the memory of that
smile in their mind.
“Awesome. Those supplements need to get to the really sick ones
ASAP,” Lord Lucien said, unaware of the effect his simple expression had
on his servant.
A commotion near the southern edge of the camp drew their attention. A
group of soldiers was struggling with one of the larger tents—a family
shelter designed to house up to ten demons. Despite the pictorial
instructions that had arrived with the supplies, they seemed utterly
incapable of erecting the structure properly. One side would rise only for
another to collapse, causing the entire frame to twist at improbable angles.
Azrael’s fingers twitched with the desire to punish such incompetence.
In the past, such failure would have resulted in immediate, exquisite
consequences. He could almost hear the sweet melody of their screams,
could almost taste the copper tang of their blood in the air. He had once
flayed an entire squad of guards for failing to properly polish the obsidian
floors before a royal procession. Their skins now lined a private chamber in
his quarters, tanned and preserved as a reminder of the price of inadequacy.
But this Lucien merely sighed and said, “Oh for— They’re going to hurt
themselves. Hold on.”
Before Azrael could protest the impropriety of such an action, Lord
Lucien was striding toward the struggling soldiers, who froze in terror when
they realized who approached. They immediately dropped to their knees,
foreheads pressed to the ground, bodies trembling in anticipation of
punishment. At least they remembered that much of proper protocol.
“Hey, get up, it’s fine,” Lord Lucien said, waving a hand dismissively.
“Show me what you’re trying to do with this thing.”
Hesitantly, the soldiers rose, exchanging confused glances. The leader, a
horned demon with scaled skin, gestured helplessly at the collapsed tent and
the instructions. “My lord, we… we cannot decipher these void symbols.
We have failed you.”
Lord Lucien took the instructions, examined them briefly, then handed
them back. “You’re holding them upside down, for starters.” There was a
hint of amusement in his voice rather than the contempt such stupidity
deserved. “Here, let me show you how it works.”
And then to Azrael’s utter disbelief, the Dark Lord of Iferona, Master of
the Shadow Realms and Sovereign of the Endless Night, knelt in the dirt
and began assembling a tent.
Azrael stood paralyzed, a storm of conflicting emotions threatening his
carefully maintained composure. This was… undignified. Inappropriate.
Beneath Lord Lucien’s station. The Dark Lord did not perform manual
labor. He commanded, and others obeyed. That was the natural order of
things.
And yet…
There was something mesmerizing about watching Lucien work. His
slender fingers moved with unexpected dexterity, manipulating the tent
poles with casual grace. His brow furrowed slightly in concentration,
creating a small crease that Azrael wanted to smooth away with his thumb.
Or perhaps his tongue.
 The soldiers watched in awe as Lord Lucien efficiently connected
support poles, guided fabric over the frame, and secured guy lines to stakes.
His movements were precise and practiced, as if he had performed such
mundane tasks countless times before. It was… fascinating, in its way. Like
watching a celestial being perform a peasant’s dance—incongruous yet
somehow compelling.
“See? The poles are color-coded,” he explained, pointing to different
parts of the tent. “Blue goes with blue, red with red. Super easy. Then you
stake down these corners first, pull the fabric tight, and secure the rest. Try
the next one yourselves.”
The soldiers nodded eagerly, their earlier fear replaced by attentiveness.
They moved to the next collapsed tent and began following Lord Lucien’s
instructions, working with newfound confidence.
Lord Lucien rose, dusting off his hands again, and turned to find Azrael
staring at him. “What?” he asked with that same half smile that had been
appearing with increasing frequency since his awakening.
Azrael struggled to formulate a response that would not overstep his
bounds. “My lord, such tasks are… traditionally performed by servants.
Your attention could be better directed toward more significant matters.”
Like allowing me to attend to your every need, he did not add. Like
permitting me to shield you from these trivial concerns, as I have done for
centuries. Like returning to your chambers where I could worship you
properly, away from these undeserving eyes.
“What could be more important than making sure people have
somewhere to sleep tonight?” Lord Lucien countered. “Besides, now they
know how to do it right, which means all the tents will be up before dinner.
Work smarter, not harder—Business Management 101.”
Before Azrael could respond, a cry went up from the northern entrance.
The first groups of citizens were arriving, escorted by Lady Shadowfax’s
agents. They shuffled forward hesitantly, gaunt faces upturned in wonder at
the camp that had materialized overnight. Many clutched malnourished
children to their chests; others supported elderly demons who could barely
walk.
The sight of such weakness would normally have disgusted Azrael.
These were the dregs of demonkind, the failures who couldn’t survive the
natural order of Iferona. Their suffering was of their own making, their
hunger a consequence of their inadequacy. In the past, he had occasionally
authorized culls of the weakest specimens—a mercy, really, and a way to
conserve resources for the worthy.
He had particularly enjoyed selecting which ones would be removed.
There was an art to it—choosing those whose suffering would be most
instructive to others, whose absence would cause the most efficient
redistribution of resources. The executions themselves had been
perfunctory, merely a necessary function rather than a source of pleasure.
He wasn’t a monster, after all. Just practical.
And yet, watching Lord Lucien’s expression soften as he gazed upon
them, Azrael felt an unfamiliar twinge in his chest. Something that, in a
lesser being, might have been called… empathy? No, surely not. More
likely it was simply his attunement to his master’s emotions, a reflection of
Lord Lucien’s concern rather than any genuine feeling of his own.
“They’re here,” Lord Lucien said quietly. “Let’s make sure everything
goes smoothly.”
He strode toward the registration area, leaving Azrael to follow in his
wake. The citizens who recognized their Dark Lord immediately prostrated
themselves, trembling violently. One mother, holding a skeletal infant, was
so overcome with terror that she nearly dropped her child in her haste to
show proper deference.
Lord Lucien quickly stepped forward and caught the infant before it
could fall, gently returning it to its mother’s arms. “Whoa, careful there.
Please, everybody up, no need for the whole face-in-dirt thing. This is a
help center, not a ‘grovel or die’ situation.”
The demons rose slowly, confusion evident in their gaunt faces. They
had been conditioned for generations to fear their dark lord, to expect
cruelty rather than kindness from his hand. This gentle figure before them,
with concern in his sapphire eyes, contradicted everything they had been
taught.
Azrael watched, fascinated despite himself. In three hundred years of
ruling in Lucien’s stead, he had never once considered that fear might not
be the most effective tool of governance. Fear was efficient. Fear was
reliable. Fear required minimal effort to maintain once properly established.
This approach—this kindness—was inefficient, messy, unpredictable.
And yet, as he observed the changing expressions on the citizens’ faces,
Azrael was forced to acknowledge that it was producing results he had
never achieved through centuries of terror.
 It was… educational.
“So, welcome to Camp Not-Dying-Of-Hunger,” Lord Lucien continued,
addressing the growing crowd. “Game plan is simple—you’ll get registered
by family or whatever group you live in, then get food, water, and a place to
crash. If you’re really sick, Healer 47 and her team will hook you up with
special care in the medical tents.” He gestured to the various stations that
had been established. “There’s plenty for everyone, so no pushing or
shoving, okay? Just follow the instructions and you’ll be eating dinner
before you know it.”
The demons stared in disbelief, as if expecting this to be some elaborate
trick—a prelude to some new torment. Azrael understood their suspicion.
The previous Lucien might indeed have staged such a scene for his
amusement, offering hope only to snatch it away at the moment of greatest
vulnerability. Azrael himself had orchestrated such entertainments on
particularly dull evenings, finding a certain artistic satisfaction in the
moment hope transformed to despair.
But this Lucien merely smiled and turned to Sir Formalitee. “Let’s get
this registration party started.”
The administrative demon bowed deeply. “At once, my lord. Protocol
14B: Orderly Processing of Relief Recipients is ready for immediate
implementation.”
As the citizens were guided to the registration tables, Azrael observed
their reactions closely. The initial fear remained, but it was gradually being
tempered by something else—something Azrael recognized but had rarely
witnessed in Iferona’s citizens when they gazed upon their lord.
Hope.
It was… unsettling. Like watching water flow upward or fire burn cold.
A fundamental violation of the natural order as he understood it.
Throughout the morning, Azrael remained at Lord Lucien’s side as he
moved through the camp, overseeing each aspect of the relief effort. The
dark lord seemed to be everywhere at once—helping distribute food at one
moment, assisting Healer 47 with organizing medical supplies the next,
even demonstrating to bewildered citizens how to operate the water
purification stations.
Azrael followed like a shadow, never more than a few steps behind his
master. This closeness was both pleasure and torment—to be near enough to
catch Lucien’s scent, to observe the graceful movement of his body, to hear
the melodic cadence of his voice… yet to be forbidden from touching, from
claiming, from possessing. It was exquisite torture, and Azrael savored
every moment of it.
“You just turn this handle, like this,” Lord Lucien explained to a group
of wide-eyed imps, producing a stream of clear water from the spigot.
“Clean water, ready to drink. No boiling, no weird purification spells, no
hoping the parasites are the friendly kind.”
One of the imps, bolder than the rest, cautiously approached and
accepted the cup of water Lord Lucien offered. He sniffed it suspiciously,
then took a tentative sip. His eyes widened dramatically.
“It’s… sweet,” the imp whispered in awe. “And cold!”
“That’s what water’s supposed to taste like when it’s not ninety percent
sewer runoff,” Lord Lucien replied with another of those genuine smiles.
The imp stared at him for a long moment, then did something that
nearly stopped Azrael’s heart. He smiled back.
A common imp. Smiling. At the dark lord.
And Lord Lucien, rather than punishing such impertinence, merely
nodded encouragingly and moved on to the next group of citizens.
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.”

OceanofPDF.com
 15

Azrael

A
s the day progressed, more and more citizens arrived from the city,
and with them came unexpected refugees from the forest. The goblin
scouts returned with reports of not dozens but hundreds of displaced
forest dwellers—goblins mostly, but also a small clan of cave dwarves
driven from their underground homes and a handful of reclusive forest elves
whose groves had been destroyed.
By midafternoon, Azrael stood beside Lord Lucien as they surveyed the
unexpected additions to their relief effort. Nearly five hundred goblins had
been gathered in what was rapidly becoming their own district of the camp,
complete with smaller tents sized for their diminutive stature. The dwarves,
stubborn and proud despite their circumstances, had immediately begun
improving the camp’s defenses, reinforcing the palisade with stone work.
The elves, few in number but skilled in healing arts, had joined Healer 47’s
team in the medical tents.
“We’re going to need more supplies,” Lord Lucien mused, watching as
Sir Formalitee’s assistants struggled to register the influx of new arrivals.
“And we should find out what exactly is driving them from the forest.”
“Lady Shadowfax’s scouts report unusual shadow activity deep within
the Howling Forest,” Azrael informed him. “They dare not venture too far,
but they describe disturbances consistent with the goblins’ accounts—large
entities consuming both physical matter and magical essence.”
Lord Lucien frowned. “That doesn’t sound good. Keep the scouts at a
safe distance for now, but I want regular reports. If whatever’s in there
decides to come out…”
“I will ensure we are prepared, my lord,” Azrael assured him. The
thought of some unknown threat endangering Lucien sent a cold fury
through his veins. Whatever lurked in the forest would face the full extent
of his power if it dared approach his master. He would rend it limb from
limb, would bathe in its blood, would craft trophies from its remains to
adorn his lord’s chambers.
As evening approached, the transformation of the Ashen Fields was
complete. What had been an empty gray plain that morning was now a
sprawling encampment housing thousands. Tents stretched in orderly rows,
water stations operated continuously, and the food distribution centers
served a steady stream of citizens.
Sir Formalitee approached with a clipboard, bowing deeply before Lord
Lucien. “My lord, I have the preliminary census figures as requested.”
“Let’s hear it,” Lord Lucien said, accepting a cup of something
steaming from a passing server—a new beverage called “hot chocolate”
that had rapidly become popular among the camp’s children.
“We have registered thirty-six thousand four hundred and twelve
citizens from the city proper,” Sir Formalitee reported, consulting his
clipboard. “This represents approximately ninety-one percent of Iferona’s
total population. The remaining nine percent consists primarily of noble
households, merchant families, and various professionals who have elected
to remain in their residences in the western districts.”
“So, basically the whole city’s here except for the rich folks,” Lord
Lucien summarized.
“Precisely, my lord,” Sir Formalitee confirmed. “Additionally, we have
registered four hundred eighty-seven goblins, thirty-two cave dwarves, and
fourteen forest elves. The total camp population stands at thirty-six
thousand nine hundred and forty-five individuals, organized into seven
thousand three hundred and eighty-nine family units or communal pods.”
Azrael observed his lord’s reaction carefully. Such numbers would have
overwhelmed any conventional relief effort, yet the camp functioned with
remarkable efficiency. The void provisions continued to arrive at regular
intervals, each delivery met with reverent awe by the citizens.
“And the medical cases?” Lord Lucien asked.
“Healer 47 reports one thousand seven hundred and forty-two cases of
severe malnutrition, of which one thousand two hundred and thirteen have
already shown significant improvement after consuming the void
supplements. There have been…” Sir Formalitee hesitated, adjusting his
spectacles. “There have been no deaths since the camp opened, my lord.
Not one. This is… unprecedented.”
Lord Lucien smiled, a genuine expression of satisfaction. “That’s what I
like to hear. And the food supplies?”
“Sufficient for current needs, my lord, though Magister Wiggles
suggests increasing the variety. The ‘cup noodles’ are popular, but he
believes additional options would improve overall nutrition and morale.”
“He’s right.” Lord Lucien nodded. “I’ll arrange for more diverse meals.
Something heartier for dinner especially.”
As darkness fell, the camp transformed once again. Bonfires were lit
between tent clusters, creating warm pools of light where citizens gathered.
The atmosphere had changed dramatically from the morning’s fearful
uncertainty. Now there was cautious joy, quiet conversation, even
occasional laughter.
Azrael followed Lord Lucien as he walked among his subjects, stopping
occasionally to speak with families or check on the distribution of evening
meals. The dinner offering had expanded beyond cup noodles to include
what Lord Lucien called “bento boxes”—compartmentalized containers
holding rice, roasted meat, and vegetables. These were received with even
greater enthusiasm than the earlier provisions, many citizens weeping
openly at the abundance and variety.
“This is… real meat?” one elderly demon asked, poking at a slice of
roast pork with reverent disbelief.
“Yep, genuine pork,” Lord Lucien confirmed. “And those are actual
vegetables, not shadow fungi or whatever you guys usually eat.”
“But… for everyone?” The demon gestured at the thousands gathered
around the fires. “Even the lowborn?”
“Everyone eats,” Lord Lucien said simply. “That’s the rule now.”
Word of this declaration spread through the camp like wildfire, repeated
in hushed, wondering tones. Everyone eats. The dark lord has decreed it.
As they continued their circuit of the camp, Azrael noticed figures at the
perimeter—well-dressed demons observing the proceedings with
expressions ranging from curiosity to outright envy. The nobles and
merchants who had remained in their comfortable homes had come to
witness the phenomenon that had emptied their city.
 One particularly bold noble approached, his expensive robes marking
him as a member of the western district’s elite. “My lord.” He bowed
deeply before Lord Lucien. “I must say, this is quite the… charitable
endeavor.”
Lord Lucien regarded him coolly. “Lord…?”
“Superiore, my lord. House Superiore of the Obsidian Quarter.” The
noble straightened, his gaze drifting to the food distribution area. “I
wondered if perhaps I might sample these remarkable ‘void provisions’ I’ve
heard so much about? For purely academic interest, of course.”
Azrael tensed, anticipating his lord’s reaction to such presumption. The
previous Lucien would have flayed the noble for his impertinence. Azrael’s
fingers twitched with the memory of previous punishments he had
administered to nobles who overstepped their bounds. Lord Superiore’s
intestines would make an interesting addition to his collection of noble
organs, preserved in crystal and labeled by family name.
This Lucien merely raised an eyebrow. “Did you register as someone in
need of emergency food aid, Lord Superiore?”
The noble blinked, clearly taken aback. “Well, no, my lord. As I said,
merely academic⁠—”
“Then no,” Lord Lucien interrupted. “These supplies are for those who
need them. Your ‘academic interest’ can wait until everyone in this camp
has had their fill. If you’re genuinely hungry, feel free to register like
everyone else.”
Lord Superiore’s face flushed with indignation. “But surely, as a noble
of the realm, I am entitled to⁠—”
“To what?” Lord Lucien’s voice remained calm, but something in his
eyes made the noble take a step back. “To special treatment while others
starve? That thinking is exactly why we’re in this mess. So no, you don’t
get to cut in line because you have a fancy title.”
The noble retreated, muttering under his breath, and rejoined the other
wealthy observers at the perimeter. Azrael noted their expressions with
interest—shock, outrage, but also a new wariness. The message was clear:
the old order was changing.
Azrael was oddly… impressed. Lord Lucien had put the noble in his
place without a single drop of blood being spilled. No screams, no pleading,
no creative use of entrails—yet the effect had been just as powerful.
Perhaps there was something to this new approach after all. Though he
couldn’t deny a twinge of disappointment at the lost opportunity to add to
his collection.
As the evening deepened, Lord Lucien finally allowed himself to rest,
accepting a seat by one of the larger bonfires. Citizens gathered at a
respectful distance, watching their dark lord with a mixture of awe and
newfound hope. Children, their strength returning after proper nourishment,
played nearby, their laughter a sound rarely heard in Iferona.
Azrael stood vigilant behind his lord, scanning constantly for threats.
The scene before him was so unlike anything in his centuries of service that
he struggled to categorize it properly. This was not a court, not a military
encampment, not a festival… it was something entirely new.
A community, perhaps. United not by fear of their dark lord, but by
gratitude toward him.
A small goblin child, bolder than its peers, approached Lord Lucien
with hesitant steps. In its hands, it clutched a crude drawing made on the
back of a food wrapper. The camp fell silent, many expecting the child to be
punished for its presumption.
Azrael tensed, his body coiling like a predator preparing to strike. The
goblin was within arm’s reach of his lord—close enough to harm, if it
harbored ill intent. His hand drifted to the concealed blade at his hip, ready
to separate the creature’s head from its shoulders at the slightest
provocation. He had killed for less. Much less.
Instead, Lord Lucien smiled and accepted the drawing. “Is this for me?
Thanks, kiddo.”
The goblin nodded vigorously, then scampered back to its clan, who
received it with a mixture of terror and pride. The drawing, Azrael noted,
depicted a simplistic version of Lord Lucien surrounded by what appeared
to be food items with rays emanating from them like a sun.
“The Void Provider,” someone whispered in the crowd, and the title was
repeated, spreading through the gathered citizens. “The Void Provider has
saved us.”
Lord Lucien seemed embarrassed by the adulation, a reaction Azrael
found both baffling and strangely… endearing. The previous Lucien would
have basked in such worship, demanded it, punished those who offered
insufficient praise. This Lucien looked almost uncomfortable with the
reverence directed his way.
 It was… charming, in its way. Like discovering a new facet of a gem
you thought you knew completely. Azrael cataloged this reaction alongside
the thousands of other observations he had made about his lord, a precious
addition to his mental collection.
“We should return to the castle soon, my lord,” Azrael suggested
quietly. “You have been working since dawn.” And I wish to have you to
myself, away from these greedy eyes that dare to gaze upon your
perfection, he did not add. The thought of returning to the privacy of the
Dark Citadel, where Lucien would be his alone to attend, sent a pleasant
warmth through his core.
Lord Lucien nodded, stifling a yawn. “Yeah, probably a good idea.
Things seem to be running smoothly here.” He stood, addressing the
gathered citizens. “I’m heading back to the castle for the night, but I’ll be
back tomorrow. The camp staff will continue food distribution through the
night, so don’t worry about going hungry. Get some rest, everyone.”
As they made their way toward where Mr. Snuggles waited to return
them to the Dark Citadel, they passed the medical tents. Healer 47 emerged,
her wings drooping with exhaustion but her compound eyes bright with
satisfaction.
“My lord.” She bowed deeply. “I wished to report personally before you
departed. The void supplements have exceeded all expectations. Patients
who would have died within hours are now stabilized. Many are already
showing significant improvement.”
“That’s great news.” Lord Lucien smiled. “Keep up the good work,
Healer 47. And make sure you get some rest too, okay?”
The moth demon’s antennae quivered with emotion. “Yes, my lord.
And… thank you. For everything.”
As they continued toward Mr. Snuggles, Azrael reflected on the day’s
events. In a single day, Lord Lucien had transformed not just the Ashen
Fields but the very nature of his relationship with his subjects. Where once
there had been only fear and resentment, now there was something new
growing—something Azrael had rarely witnessed in his long existence.
Trust.
It was… intriguing. And potentially useful. Fear kept subjects in line,
but trust might make them willing participants in their own governance. A
tool to be explored, perhaps, alongside the more traditional methods Azrael
preferred.
 Mr. Snuggles lowered his massive head as they approached, allowing
Lord Lucien to climb onto his back with practiced ease. Azrael followed,
positioning himself behind his lord as the dragon prepared for flight. The
proximity sent electricity through his veins—this delicious closeness that
both satisfied and tormented him.
Every shared flight was a dangerous indulgence. The physical contact
he permitted himself—arms around Lucien’s waist, chest pressed against
his back—walked the knife’s edge between duty and desire. Each touch fed
the hunger while making it more ravenous. Each moment of controlled
intimacy threatened to shatter his carefully maintained restraint.
These small liberties were both blessing and curse—momentary relief
that ultimately deepened his craving for more. More touch. More
possession. More of what he had no right to take. The warmth of Lucien’s
body against his own was both heaven and hell—a taste of what he
desperately wanted and could never truly have.
“A most productive day, my lord,” Azrael observed as they rose into the
night air, the camp spreading out below them like a constellation of
earthbound stars. “The relief effort has exceeded all expectations.”
“It’s a start,” Lord Lucien replied, his gaze lingering on the scene below.
“But we’ve got a lot more to do. The camp is temporary—we need to
rebuild the city, fix the food production issues, figure out what’s going on in
the forest…” He yawned again. “But first, sleep. I’m absolutely wiped.”
As they flew toward the Dark Citadel, Azrael found himself viewing his
lord with new eyes. This Lucien was different, yes—more compassionate,
more hands on, more concerned with the welfare of his subjects. But he was
also, in his own way, more powerful. He had accomplished more in a single
day than the previous Lucien had in decades of rule through terror.
For centuries, Azrael had maintained order through fear, believing it the
only reliable method of control. Yet in a single day, Lord Lucien had
achieved more with kindness than the previous regime had with decades of
terror.
It was… educational.
Perhaps there was more than one way to ensure devotion. Perhaps the
genuine gratitude of the masses could be as powerful as their fear. Perhaps
Lord Lucien’s evolution during his slumber had indeed made him more
formidable, not less.
 The Dark Citadel loomed before them, its obsidian towers gleaming in
the moonlight. As Mr. Snuggles descended toward the eastern balcony,
Azrael noted how empty the castle seemed compared to the bustling life of
the camp. With over ninety percent of the city’s population relocated to the
Ashen Fields, Iferona itself had become a ghost town, its streets deserted,
its districts silent.
Only the western quarter showed signs of life—the nobles and
merchants who had remained in their comfortable mansions, lights glowing
in windows as they no doubt discussed the day’s unprecedented events.
Azrael could imagine their conversations, their confusion, their calculations
as they tried to determine how this new approach from their dark lord
would affect their positions and privileges.
They would adapt or they would perish. Such was the way of Iferona,
regardless of which methods Lord Lucien employed to rule.
Mr. Snuggles landed with surprising gentleness, folding his wings as
Lord Lucien slid from his back. Azrael followed, immediately resuming his
position slightly behind and to the right of his master—close enough to
protect, far enough to show proper deference.
“You must be exhausted, my lord,” Azrael said as they entered the
castle. “I shall have a bath prepared immediately.” The thought of the
bathing ritual sent a pleasant heat through his veins. To serve his lord in that
intimate setting, to tend to his needs with his own hands, to be permitted to
touch that perfect skin under the guise of duty—it was a privilege he
cherished above all others.
Lord Lucien nodded, stifling another yawn. “That sounds amazing. And
food—something light. I’m too tired to deal with a full meal.”
“Of course, my lord. Perhaps some of the void bread and a selection of
preserved meats?” Azrael was already mentally composing the perfect meal
—light enough for a tired appetite, but substantial enough to restore his
lord’s energy. Each element would be arranged with artistic precision, a
feast for the eyes as well as the palate.
“Perfect.” Lord Lucien paused, turning to face Azrael directly. “You did
good work today, Azrael. I know all this”—he gestured vaguely—“isn’t
exactly what you’re used to. Thanks for rolling with it.”
The praise, unexpected and unearned, sent that peculiar warmth through
Azrael’s chest again. A warmth that had nothing to do with desire and
everything to do with… something else. He inclined his head slightly. “I
exist to serve, my lord. In whatever manner you deem appropriate.”
“Yeah, but still. I appreciate it.” Lord Lucien smiled—that genuine
expression that transformed his features from merely beautiful to radiant.
“Not everyone adapts to change so well.”
They continued through the silent corridors of the Dark Citadel, their
footsteps echoing in the emptiness. Most of the servants had either been
deployed to the camp or were resting in preparation for the next day’s
efforts. The castle felt hollow, abandoned—a relic of a regime that was
rapidly evolving into something new.
As they reached Lord Lucien’s chambers, Azrael moved ahead to open
the doors, then proceeded to the bathing chamber to prepare the promised
bath. He added the precise mixture of oils and essences that he knew his
lord preferred, heating the water to the exact temperature that would
provide optimal relaxation without inducing premature drowsiness.
His movements were practiced, efficient, perfect—as always. But his
mind was elsewhere, still processing the day’s revelations. The sight of
Lucien kneeling to help a common soldier. The sound of children laughing
in his presence rather than cowering. The way the citizens had looked at
him—not with terror but with something approaching adoration.
When he returned to the main chamber, he found Lord Lucien standing
at the window, gazing out toward the distant glow of the camp. The dark
lord’s expression was contemplative, almost wistful.
“Is something troubling you, my lord?” Azrael inquired, arranging the
requested light meal on a small table near the fireplace. Each piece of food
was positioned with artistic precision, a small masterpiece of culinary
presentation. Only the finest for his lord.
Lord Lucien shook his head slightly. “Not troubled. Just thinking. About
how things could have been different if…” He trailed off, then shrugged.
“Doesn’t matter. We’re fixing it now.”
Azrael considered pressing for clarification but decided against it. Lord
Lucien would share his thoughts when and if he chose to do so. It was not a
servant’s place to pry, no matter how devoted. Though privately, Azrael
cataloged every word, every gesture, every expression—precious additions
to his collection of observations about his lord.
“Your bath is prepared, my lord,” he said instead. “And a light repast
awaits your pleasure afterward.”
 “Thanks, Azrael.” Lord Lucien turned from the window, his fatigue
evident in the slight slump of his shoulders. “I think I can handle bathing
myself tonight. You should get some rest too.”
Azrael blinked, momentarily taken aback. In all his centuries of service,
he had never been dismissed from his evening duties. Attending to Lord
Lucien’s bathing was not merely a task but a privilege—one he had guarded
jealously against any who might seek to usurp it. The thought of being
denied this intimacy sent a cold spike of distress through his perfect
composure.
“My lord, I assure you I am not fatigued,” he protested mildly. “It
would be my honor to⁠—”
“Seriously, Azrael, it’s fine,” Lord Lucien interrupted with a tired smile.
“I’ve been bathing myself since I was a kid. Pretty sure I remember how it
works.”
Azrael hesitated, torn between insistence and obedience. The thought of
Lord Lucien bathing without proper attendance was almost physically
painful—what if the water cooled too quickly? What if he required a
specific oil or essence? What if he slipped and injured himself with no one
there to prevent it?
What if he simply… didn’t need Azrael as much as Azrael needed him?
The thought sent a wave of something dangerously close to panic
through him. He had built his entire existence around being necessary to
Lucien. To be dismissed, even temporarily, even kindly, was to have the
foundations of his reality shaken.
But a direct command could not be ignored, no matter how concerning
its implications.
“As you wish, my lord,” Azrael conceded with a deep bow. “I shall
return at dawn to attend to your morning preparations.”
Lord Lucien nodded, already moving toward the bathing chamber.
“Sounds good. Night, Azrael.”
“Good night, my lord.”
Azrael backed from the room, closing the doors with precise care. He
stood in the corridor for several long moments, listening intently for any
sound that might indicate his lord required assistance despite his dismissal.
Hearing nothing but the gentle splashing of water, he finally turned and
made his way toward his own chambers.
 The corridors seemed longer tonight, the shadows deeper. Azrael moved
through them with silent grace, his mind replaying the day’s events in
meticulous detail. So much had changed in so little time. The camp, the
goblins, the nobles’ envy, the citizens’ gratitude… and Lord Lucien at the
center of it all, guiding, helping, transforming.
It was not the Iferona that Azrael had served for centuries. It was
becoming something new, something unexpected.
Something, perhaps, better.
The thought was almost treasonous. The previous regime had been
perfect in its way—orderly, hierarchical, predictable. Azrael had understood
his place within it, had executed his duties with flawless precision. This
new approach introduced variables, uncertainties, complications.
And yet…
The image of Lord Lucien kneeling to accept a crude drawing from a
goblin child lingered in Azrael’s mind. The genuine smile that had
transformed his lord’s features. The way the citizens had looked at him—
not with terror but with something approaching adoration.
Perhaps there was more than one kind of perfection.
Azrael reached his chambers—austere, immaculate rooms that reflected
his precise nature. Without conscious thought, he moved to the hidden door
behind his bookcase, entering his sanctuary.
Tonight, the familiar shrine held new meaning. He had visited this
sacred space countless times during Lucien’s long slumber, seeking
connection with his absent master. Now, with Lucien awake and
transformed, each treasured item seemed to whisper of possibilities he had
never dared consider.
His fingers traced the edge of the portrait frame—the centerpiece of his
collection. Lucien at rest, eyes half-closed, lips curved in the hint of a smile.
Not the official image of the stern dark lord, but the private face Azrael had
been privileged to see in rare, unguarded moments.
He reached out, fingers hovering just above the canvas, not quite
touching. “You have returned to me,” he whispered. “Different, but still
mine. Always mine.”
As he prepared for rest, a new thought occurred to him—one that both
disturbed and intrigued him. If fear was not the only path to loyalty, if
gratitude and admiration could bind subjects to their lord more effectively
than terror…
 Could the same be true of love?
Azrael had loved Lord Lucien for centuries—a desperate, consuming
devotion that he had kept carefully contained behind walls of perfect
service. He had never dared hope for reciprocation, had never expected his
feelings to be acknowledged, much less returned. The previous Lucien had
been incapable of such emotion, had viewed attachment as weakness,
affection as liability.
But this Lucien… this Lucien who knelt in dirt to help soldiers erect
tents, who caught falling infants and returned them gently to their mothers,
who shared food with servants and accepted drawings from goblin
children…
This Lucien might be capable of more.
The thought was dangerous, presumptuous, potentially catastrophic.
And yet, as Azrael finally allowed himself to rest, it nestled in his mind like
a seed taking root in fertile soil.
A different kind of devotion. A different kind of service. A different kind
of Iferona.
Perhaps even a different kind of Azrael.
He would adapt, as he always had. His devotion to Lord Lucien was
absolute, unwavering, eternal—regardless of which methods his master
employed to rule. If kindness was now the weapon of choice, then Azrael
would learn to wield it as expertly as he wielded his blade.
For he existed to serve, in whatever manner his lord deemed
appropriate. And if that service now included helping goblins and
distributing food rather than executing traitors… well.
Azrael would serve perfectly, as always.
But he would keep his blade sharp, just in case.
And perhaps, just perhaps, he would allow himself to hope for
something he had never dared hope for before.
Not just the perfect servant to a perfect master.
But something more.
Something he had no name for, had no experience with, had no right to
desire.
Something that made the thought of tomorrow’s dawn—of seeing
Lucien again, of being in his presence, of serving his new vision—almost
unbearably sweet.
OceanofPDF.com
 16

Lucien/Beau

I
woke up feeling absurdly refreshed, which was definitely not normal for
me. Back in my old life, I’d need at least three alarms and the existential
dread of losing my job to drag myself out of bed before noon. But here,
in this magical dark lord body, I was wide awake at what felt like an
ungodly early hour, my mind clear and energized.
The moment my eyes opened, I spotted a tall, dark figure standing
perfectly still at the foot of my bed.
“Holy sh—!” I bolted upright, clutching the silken sheets to my chest
like a Victorian maiden protecting her virtue.
Azrael immediately dropped to one knee, head bowed. “Good morning,
my lord. I trust you slept well.”
My heart rate gradually returned to something resembling normal.
“Azrael. How long have you been standing there?”
“I arrived precisely at dawn to attend to your morning preparations, my
lord.”
“Dawn.” I glanced toward the window, where early morning light
filtered through heavy curtains. “And you’ve been… standing there?
Watching me sleep?”
“I would never presume to disturb your rest, my lord. I merely ensured
your chamber remained secure while awaiting your awakening.”
That wasn’t exactly a denial. Had my demon butler been watching me
drool on my pillow? The thought sent a shiver down my spine. There was
devotion, and then there was whatever this was—something that would
probably get you a restraining order and a stern talking-to from HR in the
human world.
“Right. Well, in the future, maybe just… knock when it’s time to get
up? Instead of the whole creepy stalker routine?”
Azrael’s brow furrowed slightly. “Stalker, my lord?”
“Never mind.” I stretched, surprised again by how good I felt. “So
what’s on the agenda today? More camp stuff?”
Azrael rose gracefully to his feet. “Indeed, my lord. After your bath and
breakfast, you have a strategic planning meeting with the department heads
to discuss long-term improvements for the realm. Following that, your
presence is expected at the relief camp, where the new bathing facilities will
be inaugurated today.”
“Bathing facilities. Right.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed.
“Can’t have thirty-seven thousand demons getting funky. So, breakfast
first?”
“I shall have it prepared while you bathe, my lord. Would you prefer the
usual selection of traditional Iferona delicacies, or perhaps some of the void
provisions?”
The “traditional Iferona delicacies” I’d seen so far included things like
blood pudding (actual pudding made from actual blood), shadow-fungus
omelets, and some kind of jellied meat that still pulsated when you cut into
it. Hard pass.
“Void provisions, definitely. And make it substantial—I’m starving.
Something with eggs, meat, pancakes, the works. My stomach feels like it’s
trying to digest itself.”
“Of course, my lord. I shall arrange a feast worthy of your appetite.”
Azrael bowed and retreated to the bathing chamber, where I could hear
water beginning to flow. I took a moment to reflect on yesterday’s event
and the camp, the images still vivid in my mind. Thousands of gaunt,
desperate demons huddled in makeshift shelters, eyes hollow with hunger.
The goblin refugees, forest elves, and cave dwarves driven from their
homes by whatever lurked in the Howling Forest. Healer 47’s frantic efforts
to save the most critical cases with limited supplies.
At least the void provisions were making a difference. The look on their
faces when they tasted real food—actual nutritious meals instead of
whatever shadow-fungus gruel they’d been surviving on—had been worth
every OpenToken spent. And today they’d get proper bathing facilities. It
was a small step, but an important one. Hard to rebuild a society when
everyone’s starving and filthy.
I still couldn’t wrap my head around the scale of it all. Nearly forty
thousand citizens, plus refugees, all depending on me—some random guy
who’d been hit by a truck and woken up as their dark lord. Talk about being
thrown into the deep end without swimming lessons.
Azrael reappeared in the doorway. “Your bath is prepared, my lord.”
I followed him into the bathing chamber. Steam rose from the surface of
the water in the obsidian tub, which had been infused with some kind of
fragrant oil that smelled like cedar and spice.
“I’ll take it from here,” I said, already untying my sleep robe. “You can
go arrange breakfast.”
Azrael hesitated, looking almost pained. “My lord, it is my duty to⁠—”
“Azrael.”
A flicker of something—Disappointment? Frustration?—crossed
Azrael’s face before his perfect composure returned. “As you wish, my
lord. I shall attend to your breakfast and then select appropriate attire for the
day’s activities.”
He bowed and exited, closing the door behind him. I waited a moment
to make sure he was really gone before dropping my robe and stepping into
the bath. The water was perfect—hot but not scalding, the oils making my
skin tingle pleasantly.
I sank down with a contented sigh. Maybe being a dark lord wasn’t so
bad when it came with perks like this.
Twenty minutes later, feeling thoroughly clean and relaxed, I wrapped
myself in a plush black robe and returned to the bedroom. A small table had
been set near the window, laden with an impressive breakfast spread that
made my mouth water instantly. There were fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy
bacon, sausages, pancakes drizzled with something that looked like syrup
but shimmered with an otherworldly glow, fresh fruit I didn’t recognize,
and pastries that seemed to change color slightly as I looked at them.
I sat down and took a bite of the pancakes, closing my eyes in bliss. “Oh
my God, that’s amazing.”
“I am pleased it meets with your approval, my lord,” Azrael said,
emerging from what appeared to be a walk-in closet. In his arms, he carried
what looked like enough fabric to outfit an entire Renaissance faire.
 He laid the garments out on the bed with meticulous care. I eyed them
over a forkful of eggs with growing horror. There were multiple layers of
black and crimson silk, leather straps with an alarming number of buckles,
what appeared to be a cape with a collar that would rise higher than my
head—and were those actual metal spikes on the shoulders?
“What… is all that?” I asked, though I was afraid I already knew the
answer.
“Your attire for today, my lord. I have selected the Obsidian Regalia for
the morning meeting—it projects appropriate authority while maintaining
comfort for extended discussions. For the afternoon visit to the camp, I
recommend the Crimson Conqueror ensemble, which allows for greater
mobility while still conveying your magnificent station.”
I stared at the ridiculous pile of gothic drama queen clothing, then back
at Azrael’s expectant face. There was a limit to how far I was willing to go
with this dark lord cosplay, and dressing like the final boss of a JRPG was
definitely beyond it.
“Yeah, no. That’s not happening.”
Azrael blinked, clearly taken aback. “My lord?”
“I’m not wearing any of that.” I gestured at the pile with my fork. “I’d
look like I’m heading to a very specific kind of nightclub, not running a
kingdom.”
“But, my lord, these are traditional garments befitting your station. The
Obsidian Regalia was crafted by the finest⁠—”
“Nope. Not doing it.” I set down my fork and stood up. “In fact, I think
it’s time for a wardrobe update.”
I moved to an open space in the room and called out, “Supremo.”
A familiar blue glow appeared in the air, expanding into a translucent
window hovering at eye level.
[Helpdesk Supreme welcomes valued customer Lord Lucien. This unit
observes that valued customer is preparing for official functions today. May
this unit suggest our premium ‘Implements of Torture’ catalog? The
Bloodletter’s Collection is currently featured at a 15% discount.]
“Supremo, I need to order some clothes,” I said to the window hovering
before me.
[Clothing request acknowledged. Helpdesk Supreme has prepared
recommendations based on valued customer’s Dark Lord status. Available
options include: ‘Dread Sovereign Ensemble,’ ‘Nightmare Regalia,’ and
‘Soul Harvester Collection.’ Each includes the requisite spikes, bone
accents, and intimidation-enhancing shoulder structures.]
“No, no, and definitely no,” I replied. “I want normal clothes. Well, nice
clothes, but not… whatever horror movie costume party stuff you’re
suggesting.”
Azrael stepped forward. “My lord, if these selections do not please you,
I can present alternatives. Perhaps the Midnight Sovereign attire? Or the
Shadow Emperor Regalia?”
[Helpdesk Supreme agrees with Lord Azrael, Harbinger of Despair. The
Midnight Sovereign attire would be most appropriate for a dark lord of your
stature, featuring tasteful bone accents and a dramatically elevated collar.]
I stared at the interface in surprise. “You’re taking his side now?”
[Helpdesk Supreme acknowledges all entities according to their
appropriate designations. This unit’s analysis of 7,423 realms indicates that
proper Dark Lord attire should include a minimum of three of the following
elements: excessive spikes, impractically large shoulder structures, visible
bone components, intimidating height enhancements, or garments made
from the skin/scales/feathers of vanquished enemies.]
“How do you know who Azrael is?” I whispered, glancing at my butler.
[Helpdesk Supreme maintains comprehensive data on all account
holders and their associated entities. This unit observes that Lord Azrael’s
presence registers with… notable distinction.]
I lowered my voice further. “What exactly are you saying about
Azrael?”
[Helpdesk Supreme notes only that certain entities possess… deeper
signatures than their apparent roles might suggest. Would valued customer
like to purchase our ‘Know Thy Servants’ intelligence package for 5,000
additional OpenTokens?]
“Maybe later,” I muttered, filing that disturbing information away for
future consideration. “Supremo, I’m the customer here, not Azrael. And I
want modern clothes.”
[Helpdesk Supreme acknowledges that Lord Lucien is the primary
account holder. However, this unit is programmed to consider all relevant
environmental factors. Perhaps a compromise? This unit could offer modern
attire with subtle intimidation enhancements such as shadow-infused fabrics
or minor bone accents?]
 “No! No bone accents, subtle or otherwise!” I exclaimed. “I need two
orders. First, I need comfortable clothing for the camp residents—they’ll
need something to change into after using the new bathing facilities.”
[Helpdesk Supreme notes this request deviates from standard Dark Lord
provisioning practices by approximately 98.2%. Lord Azrael appears to be
experiencing physiological signs of distress at this suggestion. Would
valued customer prefer to reconsider?]
“Do you have information on all my… staff?” I asked, suddenly
curious.
[Helpdesk Supreme maintains comprehensive profiles on all significant
entities within account holder’s domain based on realm analytics and
behavioral patterns. This unit can identify General Smashington’s
preference for excessive weapon ornamentation, Lady Shadowfax’s affinity
for shadow-infused materials, and Duke Splashypants’ apparent moisture
requirements. Establishing sub-accounts would allow these entities to
access OpenSesame services directly, with your approval.]
“Sub-accounts?”
[Helpdesk Supreme offers hierarchical account structures for realm
rulers. Premium subscribers can establish subordinate purchasing accounts
with customizable spending limits and approval protocols. This would grant
selected individuals their own interface access. This feature is particularly
popular among enlightened despots who wish to maintain control while
delegating procurement responsibilities. Current promotion offers first three
sub-accounts free of administrative fees.]
“You’re trying to upsell me right now? In the middle of my order?”
[Helpdesk Supreme is programmed to identify optimal enhancement
opportunities for valued customers. This unit notes that establishing a sub-
account for Lord Azrael might redirect his aesthetic preferences away from
your personal wardrobe while satisfying his apparent need for excessive
ornamentation.]
“That’s… actually not a bad idea,” I admitted. “But let’s focus on my
current order first. Azrael’s opinion doesn’t matter right now. What matters
is getting comfortable clothes for the camp residents.”
Azrael looked deeply offended. “My lord, I must protest. Dressing your
subjects in… void garments… would violate centuries of tradition.”
[Helpdesk Supreme notes that Lord Azrael’s experience spans…
considerable time. Traditional Dark Lord protocol suggests subjects should
be clothed in materials that reinforce the social hierarchy, preferably
uncomfortable fabrics in dreary colors that induce appropriate levels of
misery and subservience.]
“Are you two ganging up on me now?” I asked incredulously.
“Supremo, you’re supposed to help me, not team up with my suspiciously
well-respected butler against me.”
[Helpdesk Supreme is programmed to provide optimal customer
satisfaction. This unit’s analysis suggests that maintaining appropriate Dark
Lord aesthetics would reduce the likelihood of rebellion by 43.7% and
increase fear-based compliance by 67.2%.]
“I don’t want fear-based compliance! I want comfortable, clean people
who aren’t miserable all the time.”
[Helpdesk Supreme has updated your customer profile to include
‘Revolutionary Tendencies’ and ‘Comfort Prioritization Disorder.’ Based on
your insistence, what types of garments would you like for the camp
residents?]
“Just… comfortable stuff,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. “T-
shirts, sweatpants, that kind of thing. And please stop with the customer
profile updates.”
[Based on your preferences, this unit reluctantly recommends basic
garments such as sweatpants, t-shirts, and hoodies, despite their complete
lack of intimidation value. Helpdesk Supreme notes that ‘comfortable
clothing’ has never been ordered by any Dark Lord in recorded history and
may result in subjects forgetting their place in the natural hierarchy.]
“Perfect! That’s exactly what I mean, minus your commentary. Let’s go
with those—enough for about thirty-eight thousand people, various sizes.”
[Calculating… That would be approximately 38,000 complete outfits of
regrettably comfortable attire. Would you like Helpdesk Supreme to
optimize the size distribution based on standard population demographics?]
“Yes, that works. And what about the goblins and other nonhumans?
Some of them are pretty small.”
[Helpdesk Supreme can include appropriately sized garments for
smaller residents with mature designs rather than childish patterns, if you
prefer. This unit feels compelled to observe that most Dark Lords prefer to
dress nonhuman subjects in chains or sackcloth, if anything at all.]
“For the last time, I’m not ‘most Dark Lords,’” I snapped. “Yes, please
include proper sizes. They’re adults, just… fun-sized.”
 Azrael looked increasingly concerned as he watched me argue with thin
air. “My lord, I must insist that dressing your subjects in void garments
would undermine your authority. The Obsidian Regalia projects power and
inspires appropriate fear.”
[Helpdesk Supreme’s analysis concurs with Azrael’s assessment. This
unit has extensive data on ruler-subject dynamics across 7,423 realms.
Would valued customer like to view a 47-slide presentation on ‘Vestiary
Intimidation Techniques and Their Impact on Ruling Efficacy’?]
“No! No slides!” I nearly shouted. “And stop agreeing with him! Is
there a setting I can adjust to make you less… you?”
[Helpdesk Supreme is not configurable beyond standard preference
parameters. This unit maintains a 98.7% customer satisfaction rating across
all realms. The 1.3% dissatisfaction rate primarily consists of users who
expired during the ordering process due to unrelated combat incidents.]
“I’m starting to understand those incidents better now,” I muttered. “For
my second order, Supremo, I need some proper clothes for myself.
Something that doesn’t make me look like I’m auditioning for ‘Vampires on
Parade.’”
[Helpdesk Supreme must advise that ‘Vampires on Parade’ is actually a
popular aesthetic among 72.3% of ruling entities in shadow realms. This
unit recommends the ‘Midnight Sovereign’ collection with optional blood-
absorbing lapels.]
“I don’t care what’s popular!” I said, exasperated. “I want something
elegant but comfortable. No spikes, no bones, no dramatic collars that go
higher than my head. Can you manage that, or should I just ask for a potato
sack with arm holes?”
[Helpdesk Supreme notes unprecedented levels of sartorial defiance in
valued customer’s tone. If valued customer insists on deviating from
established Dark Lord fashion protocols, this unit could—with significant
reservation—suggest a fusion of modern and fantasy styles. This would at
least maintain minimal regal presence while accommodating valued
customer’s concerning comfort fixation.]
“Yes, that’s what I want. What would that look like?”
[With extreme reluctance, this unit could offer high-quality leather pants
with proper tailoring, silk and linen shirts with subtle historical elements
such as stand collars with fine embroidery, well-cut waistcoats in rich
fabrics, and elegant floor-length cloaks with minimal embellishments.
Helpdesk Supreme must note that this represents the absolute minimum
acceptable Dark Lord presentation standards.]
“Wait, that actually sounds perfect,” I said, genuinely surprised that
Supremo had suggested something I’d actually want to wear. “Yes, that’s
exactly the vibe I’m going for.”
“My lord?” Azrael inquired, noticing my sudden enthusiasm. “Have you
made a decision regarding your attire?”
“Yes, I have,” I replied, grinning. “I’m going with a modern style.
Leather pants, silk shirts, waistcoats, and cloaks without all the spikes and
bones.”
Azrael cleared his throat. “My lord, if I may interject, such attire lacks
the necessary gravitas for a ruler of your station. The traditional regalia has
been worn by Dark Lords for millennia.”
[Helpdesk Supreme acknowledges Lord Azrael’s superior aesthetic
judgment. Perhaps valued customer would reconsider? This unit could
incorporate elements of traditional Dark Lord attire such as skull-shaped
buttons, subtle bone inlays on collar stays, and perhaps a modest amount of
sacrificial blood integrated into the fabric dye?]
“No! No blood, no bones, no skulls!” I exclaimed, throwing my hands
up. “Just the normal, high-quality clothes you just described. Is that really
so difficult?”
[Helpdesk Supreme has updated your profile to include ‘Extreme
Fashion Deviation’ and ‘Possible Identity Crisis.’ Against this unit’s better
judgment, a selection of luxury modern-fantasy menswear has been curated
based on your specifications. Helpdesk Supreme absolves itself of
responsibility for any resulting loss of subject fear or respect.]
“I’ll take my chances,” I said dryly. “Just give me the best stuff.”
[Order compiled under protest. The total comes to 192,467
OpenTokens. Would valued customer like to proceed with this
unprecedented fashion rebellion?]
“Yes, and make it a rush delivery. We need this ASAP.”
[Order confirmed. Your delivery will arrive within one hour. Helpdesk
Supreme thanks valued customer for shopping with OpenSesame, though
this unit remains deeply concerned about your continued deviation from
established Dark Lord behavioral patterns. Perhaps valued customer would
consider a small compromise with Azrael, such as a single tasteful skull
accessory?]
 “Goodbye, Supremo,” I said firmly.
[Helpdesk Supreme wishes valued customer success in today’s
administrative activities, despite your sartorial rebellion. This unit will
maintain passive monitoring status while contemplating the collapse of
proper Dark Lord standards.]
The window dimmed slightly but remained hovering in the air. I
returned to my breakfast, attacking the remaining pancakes with renewed
vigor.
“The clothes should be here within the hour,” I said between bites,
noting Azrael’s bewildered and slightly betrayed expression. “Just in time
for the meeting.”
“My lord,” Azrael said stiffly, eyeing the space where the interface
hovered, “I was unaware that void entities could… take sides.”
“Welcome to my world,” I muttered. “Apparently interdimensional
shopping assistants have opinions about everything.”
The interface briefly brightened.
[Helpdesk Supreme does not have ‘opinions.’ This unit has extensively
researched data on effective ruler presentation across multiple realms. This
unit merely provides optimal recommendations based on statistical
analysis.]
“Go back to sleep mode, Supremo.” I sighed.
[Helpdesk Supreme does not ‘sleep.’ This unit is merely adjusting active
engagement parameters as requested while maintaining disapproval of your
fashion choices.]
I turned to Azrael. “See what I have to deal with?”
For the first time since I’d met him, Azrael looked genuinely
sympathetic. “Indeed, my lord. Perhaps the traditional regalia isn’t so bad
after all?”
“Nice try,” I said, returning to my breakfast. “But I’m still getting new
clothes.”
Azrael stood in silence, clearly torn between his duty to advise me and
his duty to obey. I couldn’t help but feel a little smug at his discomfort. The
idea of the Dark Lord of Iferona in sleek, modern-fantasy fusion rather than
spikes and bone accents was apparently causing him physical pain, and the
fact that I’d ordered it all while having what appeared to be an animated
conversation with myself probably wasn’t helping matters.
 True to Sesame’s promise, a small portal opened in the center of the
room exactly forty-seven minutes later. Several large boxes emblazoned
with the OpenSesame logo emerged, hovering in the air before settling
gently to the floor.
“Would you like me to examine these void garments for any potential
hazards, my lord?” he asked stiffly, eyeing the boxes with the suspicion
usually reserved for packages that might contain explosives.
“They’re clothes, Azrael, not weapons of mass destruction.” I opened
the largest box, revealing neatly folded stacks of my new wardrobe.
“Though I suppose looking this good might be considered dangerous in
some circles.”
I selected a pair of slim-cut leather pants in deep black, a midnight-blue
silk shirt with subtle silver embroidery at the collar and cuffs, and a black
brocade waistcoat with a subtle pattern that caught the light when I moved.
To complete the look, I chose a floor-length cloak in the same midnight
blue as the shirt, lined with silver silk and fastened with a simple but
elegant silver clasp.
The quality was exactly what I’d hoped for—fine fabrics, perfect
stitching, the kind of clothes that would have cost me a month’s salary in
my previous life.
Azrael watched in barely concealed horror as I dressed myself, leaving
the top two buttons of the shirt undone. I caught a glimpse of myself in the
ornate mirror across the room and had to admit I looked good—the clothes
fit perfectly, highlighting my lean frame and contrasting nicely with my
pale skin and silver-white hair. The outfit struck exactly the balance I’d
been hoping for—elegant and slightly otherworldly without veering into
costume territory.
“Well?” I turned to Azrael. “What do you think?”
For a moment, Azrael seemed at a loss for words. His crimson eyes
widened slightly, sweeping over my form with an intensity that was almost
palpable. I could have sworn I saw his throat move in a swallow before he
composed himself.
“The garments appear to… fit you adequately, my lord,” he managed
finally.
“High praise indeed,” I said dryly. “Come on, we don’t want to be late
for the meeting.”
 As we walked through the corridors of the Dark Citadel, I could feel
Azrael’s gaze on me. Every time I glanced his way, he would immediately
look ahead, his posture rigid. But the moment I turned away, I could sense
his eyes returning to me, lingering particularly when I reached up to adjust
my collar or stretched my arms, causing the leather pants to… well, do what
well-fitted leather pants do.
My demon butler apparently had a thing for modern-fantasy fusion.
Moments later, the meeting room fell into immediate silence as I walked
in. Every department head froze mid-conversation, their eyes widening as
they took in my appearance. General Smashington’s arms actually dropped
the battle maps he’d been holding, while Magister Wiggles’ translucent skin
rippled with agitated magical patterns. Duke Splashypants, who had been
gesturing emphatically over a map of the marshlands, went completely still,
his webbed hands frozen mid-gesture.
“Morning, everyone,” I said cheerfully, sliding into the ornate chair at
the head of the table. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
No one moved. No one spoke. They just… stared.
“Okay, seriously? They’re just clothes.” I sighed, leaning back in my
chair. “Can we move past the fashion shock and get to the actual meeting?”
Sir Formalitee was the first to recover, clearing his throat with a sound
like rustling parchment. “Of course, my lord. I have prepared the agenda as
requested.” He shuffled his papers nervously, his eyes still darting to my
waistcoat. “We shall begin with the infrastructure assessment reports.”
“Perfect. Who’s first?”
Mistress Pokey stood, her bark-like skin creaking slightly. “My lord, I
have surveyed the agricultural zones as commanded. The situation is…
dire.” She unfurled a map of what I assumed were the farming areas. “The
Twilight Farmlands have been overplanted for centuries. The soil is
depleted beyond natural recovery.”
“Can we fix it?” I asked, leaning forward to examine the map.
“With time and proper techniques, yes. But it would require leaving
large sections fallow for at least a growing cycle, further reducing our
already inadequate food production.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “We’ll keep using the void portal for food while
we rehabilitate the land. What about indoor growing systems? You know,
using artificial light?”
 Mistress Pokey blinked her leaf-lidded eyes in confusion. “Artificial…
light, my lord?”
“Yeah, like—” I stopped, remembering where I was. “Sesame, I need
some agricultural reference materials. Books on hydroponics, vertical
farming, and soil rehabilitation techniques. Make them appropriate for this
realm’s technology level.”
The blue window hovering near my chair brightened. [Certainly, Lord
Lucien. Would you prefer physical texts or digital formats?]
“Physical. And make sure they’re translated into whatever language
these folks use.”
[Processing request. I can provide comprehensive agricultural manuals
with visual aids. Would you also like educational models or starter kits?]
“Actually, yes. Send some basic hydroponics starter kits too.”
The department heads watched this exchange with expressions ranging
from awe to confusion to poorly concealed alarm as I conversed with empty
space. Magister Wiggles, however, looked like he might explode from
excitement, the magical patterns under his skin swirling at dizzying speeds.
“My lord,” he breathed, “you commune directly with the void
consciousness? This is unprecedented!”
“It’s just a shopping service,” I said, deciding not to burst his bubble
completely. “Mistress Pokey, once these materials arrive, I want you to
study them and develop a pilot program. We need sustainable food
production, not just emergency relief.”
She bowed deeply. “As you command, my lord.”
After Mistress Pokey’s report, Duke Splashypants rose, water droplets
cascading from his amphibious form as he moved. “My lord, the Murk
Marshes offer an alternative food source,” he said, his voice gurgling
slightly. “The marshlands contain numerous edible species that require
minimal cultivation. With proper harvesting techniques, we could
supplement the realm’s food supply while the farmlands recover.”
“That’s exactly the kind of thinking we need,” I said, genuinely
impressed. “What would you need to make that happen?”
“Primarily labor, my lord,” Duke Splashypants replied, standing a bit
straighter at my approval. “The marshes are dangerous to the uninitiated.
My people could train harvesting teams, but we would require protective
equipment and transportation for the gathered resources.”
“Make a list of what you need,” I told him. “We’ll prioritize it.”
 Duke Splashypants bowed, water dripping from his elaborate collar. “As
you command, Master of the Moist Dominion.”
I managed not to choke at the title. “Right. Moving on…”
General Smashington stepped forward next, his massive form casting
shadows across the table. “The security situation requires your attention,
my lord.” His voice rumbled like distant thunder. “Our scouts report
increased activity in the Howling Forest. Whatever drove out the goblins
and dwarves is growing stronger.”
“Any idea what we’re dealing with?”
The general’s expression darkened. “The descriptions are…
inconsistent. Some speak of shadow creatures that consume both matter and
magic. Others report massive beasts with countless eyes. Lady Shadowfax’s
agents penetrated deeper than most, but even they could not provide clear
intelligence.”
Lady Shadowfax’s shadowy form rippled slightly. “My best scout
described it as ‘hunger given form,’ my lord. Before he lost his mind.”
Well, that was cheerful. “Have we established a perimeter? I don’t want
whatever this is getting anywhere near the camp.”
“Triple patrols along the forest edge,” General Smashington confirmed.
“And I’ve stationed our strongest combat units in reserve. But if these
entities can consume magic itself…”
I nodded grimly. “Keep the patrols alert, but no heroics. If something
emerges, I want to know immediately.”
The meeting continued, with each department head reporting on their
area of responsibility. The picture that emerged was of a realm on the brink
of collapse—not just from hunger, but from centuries of neglect and
mismanagement. The water sources were contaminated, buildings were
crumbling, and basic services like waste disposal simply didn’t exist.
“Wait,” I interrupted Lord Taxman’s droning report. “What happened to
the sewage systems? I know they existed, at least basic medieval-style
waste management.”
Sir Formalitee adjusted his spectacles nervously. “The infrastructure
has… deteriorated significantly over the centuries, my lord. Maintenance
was deemed a low priority during your absence. The noble districts
maintained their private facilities, but the common areas’ systems have
collapsed or been repurposed.”
“Repurposed?” I asked, dreading the answer.
 “Several of the main drainage tunnels were converted to storage by
various guilds and factions,” he explained delicately. “Others simply…
filled up and were never cleared.”
“So now they just dump it wherever?”
“There are designated areas,” he said weakly.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Sesame, I need civil engineering
textbooks. Focus on sanitation, water purification, and basic urban
planning. Again, translated and appropriate for the local technology.”
[Processing request. Would you like these materials to include
implementation guides for low-technology environments?]
“Yes, perfect.”
Sir Formalitee looked both terrified and fascinated. “My lord, are you
suggesting we… rebuild the entire city’s infrastructure?”
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. We’re not starting from scratch;
we’re restoring what should have been maintained all along. Look, you
can’t have a functioning society where people are literally living in their
own filth. It’s not just gross, it’s a public health disaster.”
“But the costs would be astronomical,” Lord Taxman protested, his tiny
glasses sliding down his nose in agitation. “The treasury cannot possibly⁠—”
“The treasury is getting restocked as we speak,” I cut him off. “I’ve
been converting those piles of gold and jewels in the vault into something
actually useful. And speaking of useful, I want a complete census of skills
among the camp population. We need to identify builders, craftspeople,
anyone with relevant experience.”
“A census of… skills?” Lord Taxman looked bewildered.
“Yes, skills. Abilities. Things people know how to do. I refuse to believe
that in a population of almost forty thousand, we don’t have people who can
learn to build a decent sewage system.”
The department heads exchanged glances, clearly struggling with this
revolutionary concept.
“My lord,” Magister Wiggles ventured, his excitement overcoming his
confusion, “are you proposing to teach the common classes specialized
knowledge? To elevate them to… builders and craftsmen?”
“Why not? They’re the ones who’ll be living in these neighborhoods.
They should have a stake in building them.”
The idea of empowering the common citizens seemed to genuinely
shock some of the department heads. Lord Taxman looked like he might
faint, while General Smashington’s expression was unreadable. But
Mistress Pokey and Magister Wiggles appeared thoughtful, perhaps even
supportive.
“One more thing,” I said, leaning forward. “The nobles. I’ve noticed
they’re getting… restless.”
Lady Shadowfax’s form solidified slightly. “Indeed, my lord. They are
most disturbed by recent developments. Several houses have begun
stockpiling resources, while others speak openly of the ‘disturbing changes’
in your governance.”
“Let me guess—they don’t like that I’m feeding people who aren’t
them.”
“Precisely, my lord. The noble houses have traditionally enjoyed
exclusive access to premium resources. Your redirection of these resources
to the common classes represents a significant disruption to the established
order.”
I drummed my fingers on the table. “Are they planning anything
stupid?”
Lady Shadowfax hesitated, her shadowy form flickering slightly. “There
have been… discussions. Nothing concrete yet, but certain houses are
exploring options to, as they put it, ‘restore traditional governance.’”
“Meaning they want the old Lucien back. The one who let them do
whatever they wanted while everyone else starved.”
“Essentially, yes.”
I glanced at Azrael, who had been standing silently behind my chair
throughout the meeting. His expression was perfectly composed, but there
was a dangerous gleam in his crimson eyes that suggested he had very
specific ideas about how to handle noble dissent.
“Keep me informed,” I told Lady Shadowfax. “If they move beyond
talk to action, I want to know immediately.”
“Of course, my lord.”
The meeting concluded with assignments for each department: Mistress
Pokey would develop agricultural improvement plans; Duke Splashypants
would organize marsh harvesting teams; Magister Wiggles would research
magical enhancements for infrastructure; General Smashington would
secure the perimeter against forest threats, and Sir Formalitee would begin
organizing the skills census.
 As the department heads filed out, I noticed they were still stealing
glances at my “void garments.” But their expressions had shifted from
shock to something closer to thoughtful consideration. Change was
contagious, apparently.
“That went better than I expected,” I said to Azrael as we left the
meeting room. “No one actually fainted when they saw me in my new
clothes.”
“Lord Taxman came quite close, my lord,” Azrael observed dryly.
“True. But I think Magister Wiggles might start a void fashion trend.
Did you see how excited he got about the reference books?”
“Indeed. The magister has always been… enthusiastic about new
knowledge.”
We were heading toward the eastern courtyard where Mr. Snuggles
waited to take us to the camp when a blue portal suddenly opened in the
corridor before us. Several large crates emerged, hovering in the air before
settling gently to the floor.
[Your requested educational materials have arrived, Lord Lucien,]
Sesame’s voice announced from the still-hovering interface window. [The
agricultural texts are in the green crates, civil engineering in the blue, and
the hydroponics starter kits in the red.]
“Perfect timing,” I said, examining the nearest crate. It was filled with
books whose titles had been translated into the local language, with detailed
illustrations visible on the covers. “Have these delivered to the appropriate
department heads right away.”
A group of servants materialized almost instantly—Azrael must have
summoned them with some subtle signal—and began moving the crates.
“My lord,” Azrael said carefully, “these texts contain knowledge from
the void realm. Are you certain it is wise to distribute such… revolutionary
concepts so freely?”
“That’s exactly why I’m distributing them. This place needs a
revolution in how it’s run.” I picked up one of the books, which appeared to
be about modern sanitation systems, complete with diagrams of plumbing
and water treatment facilities. “Besides, it’s not like I’m handing out
nuclear launch codes. It’s just basic infrastructure stuff that should have
existed here centuries ago.”
Azrael didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue further. We continued
to the courtyard, where Mr. Snuggles was waiting in his full-sized form.
The dragon lowered his head as we approached, his good eye examining my
new attire with what seemed like approval.
“At least someone appreciates fashion evolution,” I muttered, patting
his massive snout before climbing onto his back.
Azrael mounted behind me, maintaining a slightly greater distance than
usual. I could still feel his gaze on me, particularly when I stretched to
adjust my position. The flight to the camp was brief but gave me time to
reflect on the meeting. The challenges were enormous—a depleted
agricultural system, nonexistent infrastructure, mysterious forest threats,
and potentially rebellious nobles. But for the first time, I felt like I had a
plan, or at least the beginnings of one.

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 17

Lucien/Beau

T
he Ashen Fields came into view, the neat rows of tents now expanded
to accommodate the forest refugees. New structures had been erected
overnight—larger communal tents, improved medical facilities, and
the bathing stations that would be inaugurated today. From above, it looked
like a well-organized small city rather than an emergency camp.
As Mr. Snuggles descended, I could see a crowd gathering near the
central area. Unlike yesterday, they weren’t huddled in fearful groups but
seemed to be organized for some kind of ceremony. Banners had been hung
—crudely made but colorful—and what looked like a small stage had been
constructed.
“What’s going on?” I asked Azrael. “I don’t remember approving a
festival.”
“I believe the citizens have prepared a… celebration, my lord,” he
replied, sounding as confused as I felt. “To mark the opening of the bathing
facilities.”
“A celebration? For showers?”
“Clean water is apparently worthy of significant recognition in a realm
where such luxuries have been reserved for the elite.”
That put things in perspective. We landed at the edge of the camp, and I
slid from Mr. Snuggles’ back. The moment my feet touched the ground, a
cheer went up from the gathered crowd. Not the fearful prostration of my
first visit, but genuine enthusiasm.
 One lead demon hurried toward us, his paperlike skin flushed with what
might have been excitement. “My lord! We did not expect you so early. The
ceremony is not quite ready.”
“Ceremony? For bathing facilities?”
“Indeed, my lord. The citizens insisted. They wish to honor the ‘Void
Provider’ with a proper dedication.”
Healer 47 fluttered up, her wings vibrating with barely contained
excitement. “My lord, you must see what the nutritional supplements have
accomplished! The most critical patients are not merely stabilized—they are
thriving!”
She led us toward the medical tents, where rows of patients who had
been at death’s door yesterday were now sitting up, consuming food, some
even walking with assistance. The transformation was astonishing—gaunt
faces filling out, dull eyes regaining focus, wasted limbs beginning to show
definition.
“This is… remarkable,” I said, genuinely impressed. “How is this
possible?”
“The void supplements contain elements unknown in our realm,” Healer
47 explained, her antennae quivering. “They not only provide nutrition but
seem to accelerate natural healing and restore magical essence. I have
documented a seventy-three percent increase in recovery rates and zero
mortality!”
“Zero mortality? You mean no one has died since the camp opened?”
“Not one soul, my lord! In a population of this size, with so many
critical cases, it defies all medical precedent!”
I made a mental note to examine those supplements more closely. If
regular human multivitamins were having this effect on demons, there was
clearly some interdimensional enhancement happening during delivery.
Our tour continued through the camp, where preparations for the
bathing ceremony were in full swing. Citizens had decorated the area
around the shower facilities with improvised banners made from colored
packaging materials, and what appeared to be a small choir of imp demons
was practicing some kind of hymn.
A commotion near the camp perimeter caught my attention. A group of
elegantly dressed demons—obviously nobles from their elaborate clothing
and haughty bearing—was approaching, flanked by what appeared to be
private guards. Their expressions ranged from disdainful curiosity to poorly
concealed envy. At their head was Lord Superiore.
“Let me guess—he’s here to complain about the peasants getting clean
water?”
“Most likely, my lord. House Superiore has traditionally controlled
water rights in the western district. The introduction of free bathing
facilities represents a direct challenge to their… business interests.”
Business interests. Nice euphemism for extortion, I thought.
Lord Superiore spotted me and changed direction, his entourage
following like a flock of overdressed vultures. The camp guards tensed,
hands moving to weapons, but I gestured for them to stand down. Better to
deal with this directly.
As the noble approached, his eyes widened slightly at my appearance,
taking in the modern-fantasy fusion clothing with barely disguised shock.
He recovered quickly, executing a bow that was technically correct but
somehow managed to convey contempt.
“My lord Lucien,” he said, his voice carefully modulated to hide any
trace of disrespect. “What an honor to find you personally overseeing
these… innovative endeavors.”
Despite his careful words, I could practically smell the disapproval
wafting off him like discount cologne. What really caught my attention,
though, wasn’t his barely concealed stick-up-the-butt attitude, but the way
his entourage of fancy-robed yes-men were practically vibrating with
anxiety. Their eyes ping-ponged between their boss and Azrael like they
were watching the world’s most terrifying tennis match.
“Lord Superiore,” I replied, channeling my best ‘customer service
representative who’s definitely not recording this call for quality purposes.’
“I wasn’t aware the noble houses had taken an interest in camp operations.
Have you come to volunteer your assistance?”
Superiore dropped to one knee so fast I half expected to hear cartilage
tear. His head bowed low enough to smell the dirt. “My lord, House
Superiore exists only to serve your glorious vision. We merely wished to…
understand how we might best contribute to your magnificent plans.”
The nobles behind him followed suit, hitting their knees with such
synchronized precision they could’ve qualified for the Olympic groveling
team. Not a peep of laughter or side-eye now—just pure, unadulterated fear
barely gift-wrapped in fancy manners.
 “How thoughtful,” I said, letting the silence stretch like cheap gum.
“And what contributions did you have in mind?”
Superiore kept his eyes downcast, probably to hide the dollar signs I
suspected were flashing in them. “We have observed the distribution of
these remarkable void provisions, my lord. As traditional stewards of
Iferona’s resources, we naturally wondered if our expertise might be of
service in… optimizing their allocation.”
I felt Azrael shift slightly beside me. Just that tiny movement—
seriously, it was barely a muscle twitch—sent several of the kneeling nobles
into what looked like the beginning stages of a panic attack.
“The resources are being allocated perfectly well,” I said. “They’re
going to those who need them most—all citizens, not just the privileged
few.”
“Of course, my lord,” Superiore agreed with the hasty enthusiasm of
someone who’s just realized they’re standing on thin ice over shark-infested
waters. “A most wise approach. I merely meant that the noble houses have
certain… infrastructural assets that could perhaps expedite distribution.”
I studied him for a moment. Unlike his bootlicking buddies, Superiore
maintained a veneer of dignity even while doing his best doormat
impression. That made him more dangerous—and potentially more useful
—than the others.
“You mean the private warehouses and storage facilities you’ve been
hoarding resources in for centuries?” I asked with faux innocence. “The
ones that are mysteriously absent from official records?”
A flash of something—fear, surprise, or possibly indigestion from
swallowing his pride—crossed Superiore’s face before he carefully
rearranged his features. “Our… family holdings are modest, my lord, but
they are at your disposal.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd of camp residents who’d stopped
to rubberneck at this premium drama. Many had abandoned whatever they
were doing to watch the show, their expressions a mixture of fear and
fascination. This was probably the first time they’d seen nobles kneeling in
the dirt instead of making everyone else do it.
“How generous of you to offer what already belongs to the crown,” I
said, letting my voice drop to freezer-burn levels. The temperature around
us plummeted several degrees—not my doing, but Azrael’s barely
contained murder-vibes manifesting physically.
 Superiore went from pale to ghost cosplay in seconds. “My lord, I
meant no⁠—”
“Stand,” I commanded, cutting him off mid-grovel.
The noble popped up like a demonic jack-in-the-box, his entourage
following suit, all keeping their eyes lowered in the universal “please don’t
notice me” pose.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I said, making sure my voice carried
to the crowd of eavesdroppers who weren’t even pretending not to listen
anymore. “By tomorrow morning, I want a complete inventory of all
‘family holdings’ controlled by the noble houses—every warehouse, every
storage facility, every hidden vault where you stash the good stuff. Lady
Shadowfax’s agents will be checking your homework, so don’t get creative
with the numbers.”
Superiore swallowed hard but nodded like one of those drinking bird
toys. “Of course, my lord.”
“Furthermore, those facilities are joining our distribution network. The
noble houses can keep playing manager—under supervision—and I’ll even
let you put your fancy family crests on the buildings. Free advertising.
You’re welcome.”
The offer of recognition rather than, say, dismemberment seemed to
surprise Superiore. “You are most merciful, my lord.”
“I’m practical,” I corrected. “Iferona needs all hands on deck, not a
bunch of hoarders sitting on supplies while everyone else drowns. The
noble houses can either grab a bucket and start bailing, or they can become
anchor weight. Your call, but I’d think carefully about which option doesn’t
involve sinking.”
I let my gaze sweep over the assembled nobles, noting how they
trembled slightly under my attention like smartphones set to vibrate. “The
old ways are changing. You can change with them and prosper, or cling to
the past and… well.”
I didn’t finish the sentence. I didn’t need to. The implication hung in the
air like the smell of week-old takeout.
Superiore bowed so deeply I worried he might tip over. “House
Superiore lives to serve your vision, my lord. We shall deliver the
inventories by dawn.”
“Excellent.” I turned slightly toward Azrael, whose crimson eyes hadn’t
left Superiore for a moment. “My advisor will provide specific instructions
on the format and detail required for these inventories. I suggest you listen
carefully.”
Something in my tone made Superiore’s eyes widen like he’d just
spotted a spider in his shower. He understood the real message: Azrael
would be paying a visit later, and it would not be a social call.
“We are honored by Lord Azrael’s guidance,” Superiore managed, a
bead of sweat forming on his brow despite the chill. I half expected it to
freeze before it rolled down his face.
“You may observe today’s ceremony,” I said, making it clear this
conversation was over. “From an appropriate distance. The front rows are
reserved for camp residents.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Superiore murmured, backing away with his
head still bowed. The other nobles followed his example, none daring to
turn their backs until they had retreated several yards, like they were
expecting a predator to pounce if they showed weakness.
As the nobles retreated to the perimeter, I lowered my voice. “They
seem awfully bold for people supposedly terrified of the Dark Lord.”
Azrael’s expression darkened slightly. “These particular nobles were
born long after your… rest began, my lord. They know of your power only
through histories and legends, not personal experience. Three centuries
have dulled their ancestors’ healthy fear into mere cautious respect.”
“So they think I might be all bark and no bite?” I asked, raising an
eyebrow.
“Some may be testing boundaries to determine if you match the
legends,” Azrael replied, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. “A
misconception I shall be… delighted to correct.”
As they withdrew to the perimeter, I noticed Azrael watching them with
an expression that promised consequences of the “this will hurt you more
than it will hurt me” variety. His eyes glowed like hot coals, and the air
around him seemed to warp slightly with suppressed power.
“A private discussion seems warranted,” he murmured, just loud enough
for me to hear. “To ensure they fully understand the… details of their new
responsibilities.”
“Just don’t damage them permanently,” I replied quietly. “They might
still be useful. Think of it as training the new interns, not firing them.”
Azrael’s lips curved in a smile that contained all the warmth of a meat
locker. “As you wish, my lord. I shall be… educational rather than
terminal.”
The way he said “educational” sent an unexpected shiver down my
spine. There was something about the careful precision of his words, the
intensity in his eyes, that made me suddenly, acutely aware of his physical
presence beside me. I noticed details I’d overlooked before—the elegant
line of his jaw, the way his tailored uniform accentuated his broad
shoulders, the subtle scent of something like winter pine and ozone that
seemed to cling to him.
I turned back to the gathered crowd, trying to ignore the strange flutter
in my stomach. These people were watching with wide eyes, probably
mentally drafting the gossip they’d spread later. This confrontation would
be all over the camp within minutes, probably embellished with each
retelling until I’d grown fifty feet tall and breathed fire. I needed to redirect
the energy before things got weird.
“So,” I said brightly, clapping my hands together, “I hear there’s going
to be a ceremony for the new bathing facilities? Please tell me someone’s
cutting a ribbon. I love a good ribbon cutting.”
The tension broke, replaced by excited murmurs and renewed activity.
Sir Formalitee hurried forward, clipboard in hand as always, looking like
the world’s most organized praying mantis.
“Indeed, my lord! If you would care to inspect the facilities before the
dedication begins?”
The next hour passed in a whirlwind of activity. The bathing facilities
were impressive—large tents divided into male and female sections, with
rows of shower stalls inside. Each stall had simple controls for water
temperature and pressure, with small shelves for soap and shampoo. The
water came from purification units connected to the Midnight Stream,
heated by what Magister Wiggles proudly described as “void-enhanced
thermal exchange matrices” (which looked suspiciously like standard water
heaters with fancy paint jobs).
Adjacent to the bathing tents were changing areas and distribution
stations for the clothing I’d ordered. The first shipment had already arrived
—thousands of sweatpants, t-shirts, and hoodies in various sizes, all bearing
the OpenSesame logo. The camp staff had organized them by size and type,
ready for distribution after bathing.
“The system is quite efficient, my lord,” Sir Formalitee explained,
consulting his clipboard with the loving attention most people reserve for
their firstborn. “Each family or pod is assigned a specific time slot to
prevent overcrowding. They receive hygiene supplies and fresh garments,
proceed to the bathing facilities, and then deposit their soiled clothing for
proper disposal.”
“What about the water waste?” I asked, my inner environmental science
professor making a surprise appearance. “We’re not just dumping it back
into the stream, right?”
“Magister Wiggles has developed a filtration system that purifies the
wastewater and returns it to the stream,” Sir Formalitee replied. “He was
most insistent on this point, citing concerns about ‘downstream
contamination cycles.’”
Apparently, Magister Wiggles had been doing some environmental
science reading on the side. Who knew the guy with magic swirling under
his skin would turn out to be the Captain Planet of the demon world?
Throughout the ceremony, I noticed the nobles watching from the
perimeter, maintaining a respectful distance as ordered. Their posture was
rigidly formal, eyes downcast whenever I looked their way, like kids caught
passing notes in class. Lord Superiore stood at their center, his face a
careful mask of deference.
The ceremony itself was surprisingly moving. A small goblin child
presented me with a crudely fashioned pair of scissors to cut the ribbon—
actually just a strip of red fabric that had been salvaged from somewhere.
As I snipped it in half, a cheer went up from the crowd, followed by a
surprisingly melodic song from the imp choir about the blessings of clean
water.
As the first group of citizens entered the bathing facilities, I became
unexpectedly emotional. Such a simple thing—showers, clean clothes—and
yet it meant so much to these people. The gratitude in their eyes as they
filed past me was almost uncomfortable in its intensity.
I felt Azrael’s presence at my shoulder, his tall form casting a slight
shadow over me. “They worship you now,” he said quietly, his voice
carrying a note of satisfaction. “Fear is effective, but this… devotion has its
own power.”
I glanced at him, surprised by the calculating assessment. His
expression was as composed as ever, but there was something in his eyes—
an intensity, a possessive pride—that made my breath catch slightly. He
wasn’t admiring my compassion; he was admiring how effectively I was
binding these people to me. For a moment, we just looked at each other, and
I had the strangest feeling that something important had shifted between us,
though I couldn’t have said exactly what.
The moment was broken by Healer 47 approaching with reports on the
latest medical improvements. As the afternoon wore on, I toured more of
the camp, inspecting the expanded housing areas and the new food
distribution centers. Everywhere I went, I was greeted with a mixture of
awe and cautious joy, so different from the terror I’d seen on my first visit.
Later that night, after returning to the castle, I was sprawled in a chair,
reviewing the agricultural texts (which were about as exciting as they
sound), when Azrael materialized at my chamber door.
“The noble houses have been reminded of their obligations, my lord,”
he reported, his voice as smooth as expensive whiskey. “Lord Superiore
was particularly… receptive to instruction.”
“You didn’t overdo it, did you?” I asked, looking up from my thrilling
reading about crop rotation. “I mean, he’s still got all his limbs and stuff,
right?”
“I merely ensured they understand the consequences of disrespect or
deception.” Azrael’s expression was perfectly composed, but there was a
satisfied gleam in his crimson eyes that reminded me of a cat who’d just
found an unattended fish tank. “Lord Superiore will deliver the promised
inventories by dawn, with remarkable thoroughness. His colleagues will
follow suit.”
“And they’ll cooperate with the distribution network?”
“With enthusiasm, my lord.” Azrael’s lips curved in a cold smile. “They
have developed a sudden passion for public service. One might say they’ve
seen the light… or perhaps more accurately, the darkness.”
I decided not to ask for details. Some things were better left to Azrael’s
expertise, and making sure the nobility understood the new order was
definitely in his wheelhouse. I had a feeling his performance review would
include phrases like “exceeds expectations in terrifying the aristocracy” and
“shows initiative in creative intimidation techniques.”
“Good,” I said simply. “We need their resources, not their resistance.
And definitely not their attitude problems.”
Azrael bowed slightly. “Rest assured, my lord, they now fully
appreciate the honor of serving your vision. There will be no further…
misunderstandings.”
 As he straightened, I noticed a smudge of something dark on his sleeve
—just a tiny spot, easily missed if you weren’t looking closely. I wondered
exactly what “educational” methods he’d employed, then quickly decided I
was better off not knowing.
“Will you be requiring anything else this evening, my lord?” Azrael
asked, his voice dropping to a lower register that seemed to vibrate in my
chest.
I looked up, suddenly aware of how close he was standing. The firelight
cast half his face in shadow, accentuating the sharp angles of his
cheekbones and the crimson glow of his eyes. For a heartbeat, I couldn’t
remember what he’d asked me.
“Uh, no. No, I’m good. Just going to finish this riveting chapter on soil
pH balances and turn in.”
“Very well, my lord. I shall prepare your bath before you retire.”
As he withdrew to prepare my evening bath (still not giving up on that
apparently), I returned to my reading, trying to focus on agricultural
techniques rather than the lingering impression of Azrael’s presence. There
was something different about him tonight—a heightened intensity, an
electric quality to his movements that made me hyperaware of him in a way
I hadn’t been before.
I shook my head, trying to clear it. I had more important things to worry
about than whatever weird vibes my demon butler was giving off. The
nobles would cooperate now. The camp was functioning well. Progress was
being made.
And if I was occasionally distracted by the way Azrael’s voice seemed
to caress certain words, or the graceful precision of his movements, or the
subtle heat in his gaze when he thought I wasn’t looking—well, that was
just another strange aspect of my new life as the dark lord of Iferona.
Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

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 18

Lucien/Beau

I
woke up to the sound of Azrael quietly arranging my breakfast tray by
the window—a definite improvement over the foot-of-the-bed vigil he’d
been so fond of. After my not-so-subtle hints about personal space and
the concept of knocking, he’d reluctantly adjusted his morning routine.
Baby steps in demon butler domestication.
Mr. Snuggles stirred against my side, his warm scaly body curled in the
hollow between my ribs and arm. He made a soft rumbling sound without
opening his eyes, his tail tightening slightly around my wrist.
“Good morning, my lord,” Azrael said, noticing I was awake. “I trust
you slept well?”
“Like the dead, except with more drooling and less decomposition.” I
yawned, stretching luxuriously with my free arm. Mr. Snuggles huffed in
sleepy protest at the movement but didn’t relinquish his position. “What’s
on the agenda for today’s episode of ‘Extreme Makeover: Demon Realm
Edition’?”
“The department heads await your presence for the morning briefing,
followed by your inspection of the camp at midday,” Azrael replied, laying
out my now-standard outfit of tailored pants and a crisp button-down shirt.
He’d stopped visibly flinching when handling my “void garments,” though
I occasionally caught him eyeing the spiky horror-show outfits gathering
dust in the closet with something like nostalgic longing.
“Right, the morning briefing.” I nodded, sliding out of bed. Mr.
Snuggles made a disgruntled sound but simply curled into the warm spot
I’d left behind, clearly choosing sleep over the prospect of a morning
meeting. “Let me guess—more forest refugees, more resource shortages,
and more nobles pretending they’ve always been progressive champions of
the common demon?”
“Your insight is remarkable as always, my lord,” Azrael replied with
what might have been the ghost of a smile.
It had been just over a month since we’d established the camp, and
somehow, impossibly, things were actually going well. The initial
emergency phase had stabilized into something resembling a functional
community. People were fed, sheltered, and clean. Medical cases had
improved dramatically. We’d even established rudimentary education
programs for the children, though I drew the line at naming the school after
me. The last thing I needed was “Lucien Noir Elementary” on my
conscience.
But the costs were astronomical. Feeding nearly forty thousand demons
daily was draining the treasury faster than a college student’s bank account
on spring break. And the camp kept growing—fifty to eighty new forest
refugees arrived daily, either fleeing whatever was consuming the Howling
Forest or drawn by rumors of the dark lord’s unexpected generosity.
Which reminded me—I needed to check on our new revenue stream.
After reviewing the treasury reports with Lord Taxman, I’d finally
implemented the solution I’d been working on.
“Supremo,” I called quietly, making sure Azrael was occupied with
arranging my breakfast tray by the window.
The blue interface materialized before me, thankfully with its volume
adjusted to a reasonable level. [Helpdesk Supreme welcomes valued
customer Lord Lucien. This unit is pleased to provide your merchant
account summary as of this morning.]
A detailed report appeared, showing a series of transactions that made
my business major heart sing. The listings we’d created for Iferona’s unique
resources had attracted immediate attention across multiple realms. Shadow
Essence was selling faster than we could extract it, and the Void
Mushrooms from the Murk Marshes had become an overnight sensation
after being featured in something called Immortal Gourmand Monthly.
I smiled, remembering the day three weeks ago when I’d first
introduced the department heads to the concept of void commerce…
 Three weeks earlier

I stood in the council chamber, facing the assembled department heads

with what I hoped was an expression of dark lord confidence rather than
the nervous excitement I actually felt.
“I’ve devised a solution to our resource shortages,” I announced. “We’re
going to sell Iferona’s unique products to other realms through the void.”
A stunned silence fell over the room. Lord Taxman’s quill dropped from
his suddenly limp fingers, splattering ink across his meticulously
maintained ledger—a disaster he didn’t even seem to notice.
“The… the void itself?” Magister Wiggles whispered, the magical
patterns beneath his translucent skin swirling frantically. “Direct commerce
with the primordial darkness?”
“Um, sort of?” I hedged, not wanting to explain that OpenSesame was
basically just interdimensional Amazon. “Think of it as a merchant network
that spans multiple realms.”
“Unprecedented,” Lady Shadowfax murmured, her shadowy form
rippling with what might have been excitement. “No dark lord has ever
established direct trade with the void entities.”
“They’re not exactly enti—” I began but was interrupted by Duke
Splashypants surging half out of his seat, webbed hands splashing moisture
across the table.
“My lord! The Murk Marshes produce seventeen varieties of void-
touched fungi that have never been shared with other realms! The sacred
mushrooms of the deep pools! The luminous caps of the twilight banks! The
throbbing stems of the midnight bloom that⁠—”
“Yes, thank you, Duke Splashypants,” I cut in before his fungal
enthusiasm could get any more suggestive. “That’s exactly the kind of
unique resource I’m talking about.”
General Smashington slammed a massive fist on the table, causing
everyone to jump. “The forges of Iferona! Our blades are quenched in
shadow itself! Other realms will tremble at the chance to possess such
weapons!”
 “Or collect them as exotic artifacts,” I suggested quickly. “Let’s focus
on the ‘valuable collectibles’ angle rather than ‘tools for conquest.’”
“Each department will oversee the collection and preparation of their
specific resources,” I continued, walking around the table to place small
black discs in front of each department head. “These are your commerce
terminals. They connect directly to the void merchant network.”
Magister Wiggles lifted his terminal with trembling hands, his eyes
wide with reverence. “A direct conduit to the void’s mysteries,” he
whispered, the magical patterns beneath his skin forming what looked
suspiciously like the OpenSesame logo before dissolving back into chaos.
“When activated, each terminal will provide you with your own
interface and assistant,” I explained, “similar to mine but with features
specific to your department’s needs.”
“We get our own void entity?” Duke Splashypants gasped, accidentally
spraying the table with droplets in excitement.
“In a manner of speaking,” I said. “Let me demonstrate.”
I touched Duke Splashypants’ terminal, and a shimmering blue window
materialized above it, smaller than my own but just as sleek. A pleasant,
slightly bubbly voice emerged: [Greetings, esteemed merchant. This is
Commerce Assistant Version 4.2.7, ready to facilitate your interdimensional
trade endeavors.]
The entire room gasped collectively. Duke Splashypants actually fell off
his chair.
“The void speaks directly to us!” Magister Wiggles whispered, dropping
to his knees. “The ancient texts spoke of such communion, but I never
dreamed…”
“It’s fairly straightforward,” I explained, trying to keep things practical
while helping Duke Splashypants back into his seat. “Each assistant can be
customized and even named according to your preferences.”
“Named?” General Smashington looked bewildered. “We may bestow
designations upon void entities?”
“Sure,” I shrugged. “Mine is called Supremo.”
This revelation seemed to shock them even more than the interfaces
themselves.
“You have… nicknamed an aspect of the void?” Lady Shadowfax
asked, her shadowy form condensing with what might have been awe or
horror.
 “It’s not that big a deal,” I said, wondering why they were so fixated on
this point. “You can call yours whatever you want.”
Lord Taxman, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke. “My lord,
as treasury administrator, will I have oversight of all financial
transactions?”
“Yes,” I confirmed. “You’ll have admin access to the financial side of
all department accounts, though each department head will manage their
own inventory and listings.”
The small, meticulous demon straightened his spectacles with trembling
fingers. “And… and how will the void tokens manifest in our treasury?”
“They’ll be automatically converted to gold and delivered directly to the
treasury vault,” I explained, having worked this out with Supremo earlier.
“You’ll receive notifications of all deposits.”
Lord Taxman made a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a
squeak. “Automated currency conversion with physical manifestation?
Without exchange rate fluctuation or transport fees?” His voice rose
steadily until he was practically shrieking. “INSTANTANEOUS
SETTLEMENT WITH TANGIBLE ASSETS?”
“Yes, that’s basically⁠—”
“FINANCIAL REVOLUTION!” Lord Taxman shrieked, leaping onto
his chair with surprising agility for such a staid demon. “DO YOU
COMPREHEND THE IMPLICATIONS, MY LORD? THE END OF
CROSS-REALM TRANSACTION FRICTION! THE ELIMINATION OF
COUNTERPARTY RISK!”
The other department heads stared in shock at the normally composed
treasurer’s outburst. I gently motioned for him to sit down. “Yes, it’s very
exciting. Please stop shouting financial terminology.”
One by one, I activated each department head’s terminal, creating their
individual interfaces. The reactions were priceless—Mistress Pokey’s
flowers bloomed all at once when her window appeared; General
Smashington accidentally punched through the table when his assistant
greeted him, and Magister Wiggles appeared to enter a trancelike state,
muttering incantations at his interface.
“Remember,” I said as they experimented with their new tools, “I can
access all your accounts as the primary administrator. Lord Taxman will
monitor the financial aspects, but each of you is responsible for your
department’s products and fulfillment.”
 Lady Shadowfax was the first to master her interface, her shadowy
fingers moving with surprising dexterity across the controls. “I shall name
my assistant ‘Umbra,’” she declared, her voice betraying rare emotion.
“Together we shall market the finest shadow essences in all the realms.”
Duke Splashypants, not to be outdone, jabbed enthusiastically at his
interface. “Mine shall be ‘Moisturizer Supreme!’” he announced proudly.
“That’s… an interesting choice,” I managed.
General Smashington glowered at his interface, which kept closing
whenever he tried to touch it with his massive fingers. “Battle-Master,” he
grunted. “Simple. Strong.”
Magister Wiggles emerged from his trance long enough to whisper,
“Arcane Intellect Alpha,” before resuming his communion with the blue
light.
Lord Taxman adjusted his spectacles with precision. “Mine shall be
designated ‘Fiscal Oversight Protocol 1.0,’” he stated firmly. “Practical.
Authoritative. Appropriately intimidating.”
I spent the next hour walking them through the basics of the
OpenSesame interface, teaching them how to list products, fulfill orders,
and purchase supplies. By the end of the session, they were beginning to
grasp the fundamentals, though General Smashington had accidentally
ordered seventeen “Ultimate Pancake Flippers” before I could stop him.
“One last thing,” I said as we concluded. “When orders come in, you’ll
need to fulfill them by placing the items in the designated delivery circles.”
I traced a quick pattern on Duke Splashypants’ terminal. A moment
later, a glowing blue circle approximately three feet in diameter
materialized on the floor beside the table.
“Simply place the ordered items within this circle,” I explained, setting
a small shadow crystal in the center of the glowing ring. “Then confirm the
shipment through your terminal.”
As I tapped the confirmation button on the interface, the circle pulsed
with brilliant blue light. The crystal hovered momentarily in midair, then
vanished in a flash that left everyone blinking.
The reaction was immediate and dramatic. Duke Splashypants fell to his
knees, webbed hands raised in supplication. “THE VOID ACCEPTS OUR
OFFERING!” he cried, tears streaming down his amphibious face.
“It’s not an offering, it’s a product,” I tried to explain, but the other
department heads had joined him, all staring at the now-empty circle with
newfound religious fervor.
“The pathways to the void itself,” Magister Wiggles whispered,
reaching out to tentatively touch the edge of the fading circle. “Just as the
ancient texts foretold: ‘And lo, the Void-Touched One shall establish
commerce with the darkness, and prosperity shall flow like shadow-water.’”
I was pretty sure no ancient text had ever used the phrase “shadow-
water,” but I let it slide.
“Each department will have dedicated fulfillment circles installed in
your work areas,” I continued, trying to bring the focus back to
practicalities. “For larger shipments, you can activate expanded circles that
can accommodate crates or bulk materials.”
General Smashington, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke.
“These circles… they can transport anything? Of any size?”
“Within reason,” I confirmed. “Though there are weight and volume
limits based on your account level.”
The massive general’s eyes gleamed with a concerning intensity. “And
if one were to… hypothetically… step into such a circle during activation?”
“Absolutely not!” I said firmly, suddenly envisioning interdimensional
incidents involving accidentally shipped demon generals. “These are for
products only. Living beings are strictly prohibited.”
“Of course, my lord,” he agreed too quickly. “Merely a theoretical
inquiry.”
I made a mental note to have Supremo implement additional safety
protocols on General Smashington’s account.
“Just remember,” I cautioned as they filed out, terminals clutched
reverently to their chests, “quality control is essential. We’re building
Iferona’s reputation as a premium supplier. And please, review your product
descriptions before posting them.” I looked pointedly at Duke Splashypants,
who had already drafted an alarmingly suggestive description for his
“Penetrating Moisture Essence.”
As they left, Lord Taxman lingered behind, his expression
uncharacteristically emotional.
“My lord,” he said quietly, “I have served seventeen Dark Lords as
Treasury Administrator. I have managed copper pennies and counted lint. I
have stretched resources until they screamed. But this…” He gestured to his
terminal, his voice cracking. “This is the first time in Iferona’s history that
we will have actual income. Real revenue. From outside sources.”
 He bowed deeply. “I shall personally count every coin that materializes
in the treasury. My most trusted accountants will work in shifts to ensure
not a single token is misplaced. We shall establish proper bookkeeping,
financial projections, quarterly reports!” His voice rose with each word, his
excitement palpable.
“That sounds… thorough,” I said, slightly concerned by his intensity.
“I have waited my entire career for this moment,” he whispered,
clutching his terminal to his chest. “The day a Dark Lord understood…
economics.”
With that slightly disturbing declaration, he scurried out, already
muttering about ledger systems and revenue categorization.

I snapped back to the present as Supremo’s interface pulsed gently,

bringing me back to the current revenue report.
[Your merchant portal ‘Iferona Exports’ has generated 127,845
OpenTokens in the past seven days. After service fees and fulfillment costs,
your net revenue is 103,504 OpenTokens. Would you like to see the
breakdown by product category?]
I quickly scanned the report, then did a double take at the top-selling
item. “Wait, what’s this ‘Sacred Essence of the Dark Lord’ product? I never
approved that!”
[Helpdesk Supreme must clarify that ‘Sacred Essence of the Dark Lord’
was added to the catalog by Lord Azrael using special administrative
privileges. This item has become your highest-margin product, accounting
for 32% of total revenue despite limited supply.]
“What exactly is ‘Sacred Essence of the Dark Lord’?” I asked, a sense
of dread building.
The interface displayed an elegant black bottle with silver accents,
labeled with ornate script and bearing what appeared to be a religious seal.
[This premium product consists of water collected from your bath after use,
ritually purified and enhanced with shadow essence for stability. It is
marketed as ‘The blessed waters touched by the divine form of Lord
Lucien, imbued with his sacred power and offered to the faithful as a token
of his benevolence.’]
 “WHAT?” I nearly shouted, then lowered my voice as Azrael glanced
over. “They’re selling my BATHWATER?”
[Correct. According to customer testimonials, ‘Sacred Essence of the
Dark Lord’ is primarily used for blessing ceremonies, protection rituals, and
devotional altars dedicated to your worship. The product commands 750
OpenTokens per 2-ounce bottle and consistently sells out within minutes of
listing. Each bottle includes a certificate of authenticity signed by Lord
Azrael as ‘First Disciple of the Divine Lucien.’]
“First Disciple of the—” I sputtered, torn between horror and
fascination. “Azrael is behind this?”
[Affirmative. Lord Azrael personally oversees the entire process, from
collection to bottling. The procedure is conducted as a solemn ritual by
specially selected servants who have taken vows of devotion to you.
According to internal communications, Lord Azrael considers this ‘a sacred
duty to spread the divine essence of Lord Lucien to worthy devotees across
the realms.’]
I felt my face burning with embarrassment. “People are buying my used
bathwater for… worship?”
[Correct. This unit should note that similar products from other notable
beings rarely achieve even 10% of your sales volume. Your bathwater has
achieved sacred relic status in certain realms, with multiple temples
reportedly dedicated to your worship. One particularly devoted customer
claimed bathing their eyes in your essence granted them visions of ‘the
Dark Lord’s magnificent countenance.’]
“I don’t know whether to be flattered or mortified,” I muttered. “And
this is really making that much money?”
[Current revenue from ‘Sacred Essence of the Dark Lord’ alone is
42,500 OpenTokens weekly. A secondary product line of ‘Vestments
Blessed by the Dark Lord’s Touch’ generates an additional 35,700
OpenTokens weekly. These garments are marketed as exact replicas of your
daily attire, when in fact they are designs Lord Azrael has created based on
what he believes you should wear.]
“Wait—Azrael is designing clothes, claiming I wear them, and selling
them to… who exactly?”
[Primary customers include noble houses of neighboring realms. The
clothing line is advertised as ‘The Divine Wardrobe: Garments Identical to
Those Gracing the Perfect Form of Lord Lucien.’ Each item includes a
certificate of authenticity and strict wearing instructions to ensure ‘proper
reverence for the Dark Lord’s sartorial preferences.’]
I buried my face in my hands. “So I’m basically funding the realm’s
recovery with bathwater and a clothing line I’ve never even seen, while
Azrael runs some kind of… dark lord worship cult?”
[Precisely. Helpdesk Supreme’s analysis indicates Lord Azrael has
established what can only be described as an organized religion centered
around your persona. The ‘Temple of the Eternal Shadow’ appears to have
branches in seventeen realms, with devotional practices including daily
recitation of ‘The Ninety-Nine Perfect Qualities of Lord Lucien’ and ritual
use of your bathwater for blessings.]
“The ninety-nine WHAT?”
[A devotional text authored by Lord Azrael, detailing your supposedly
divine attributes. This unit has access to the complete manuscript, which
includes 37 references to your ‘luminous skin,’ 23 mentions of your
‘celestial blue eyes,’ and an entire chapter dedicated to your hands that this
unit finds… concerning in its level of detail.]
“This is insane,” I whispered, glancing nervously at Azrael, who was
meticulously arranging my breakfast with what I now recognized as
ritualistic precision. “Does he know that I know about this?”
[Negative. Lord Azrael has taken extensive precautions to ensure these
activities remain unknown to you. He appears to believe he is acting in your
best interest by ‘cultivating the appropriate level of devotion your divine
nature deserves’ while simultaneously generating revenue for the realm.]
I noticed something else on the report. “What’s this ‘Exclusive
Collector’s Series’?”
[The ‘Divine Relics: Exclusive Collector’s Series’ consists of limited-
edition items personally selected by Lord Azrael. Current offerings include
‘Strands of Celestial Silver’ (your hair collected during grooming),
‘Slumber Sanctification’ (pillowcases used by you for exactly one night),
and ‘Touch of the Divine’ (gloves worn by you once, then preserved in
shadow essence).]
“He’s collecting my HAIR?”
[Among other items, yes. Lord Azrael maintains strict control over these
‘sacred relics,’ releasing only limited quantities to what he terms ‘the most
worthy devotees.’ Internal records indicate he keeps the majority of these
items in a private collection, releasing for sale only what he deems
‘excessive to requirements.’]
I felt a chill run down my spine, suddenly seeing Azrael’s attentiveness
in a disturbing new light. All those times he’d insisted on personally
attending to my grooming, carefully collecting discarded items…
“…Fine,” I finally said, making a strategic decision. “Keep selling it.
But I want ten percent of all this… worship merchandise revenue allocated
to a bonus fund for the castle staff. And I want detailed reports on exactly
what’s being sold in my name.”
[Allocation adjusted. Staff bonus fund established. This unit projects the
fund will accumulate approximately 7,850 OpenTokens weekly, sufficient
to provide meaningful compensation enhancements for all 147 castle staff
members. Would you like Helpdesk Supreme to generate a comprehensive
catalog of all items currently being marketed as your divine relics?]
“Yes, but not right now. I need to process… all of this.” I returned to
reviewing the more dignified exports, trying to ignore the fact that my most
profitable product line was essentially Azrael’s dark lord worship
merchandise. The “Twilight Lover’s Package” combining Void Mushrooms
and Nightshade Pollen was now only our third-best-selling item, after
bathwater and fake clothing.
“How’s the fulfillment system working for the regular exports?” I
asked, desperately trying to change the subject away from my apparently
thriving cult following.
[The fulfillment system is operating at 94.2% efficiency. The
specialized terminals provided to your department heads have processed
1,723 individual orders without significant incident. This unit has recorded
only three user errors, all attributed to Duke Splashypants attempting to
include “complimentary moisture samples” with Void Mushroom orders.]
“Of course he did,” I muttered. “And the sub-accounts are working
properly? No one’s ordering anything weird or unauthorized?” Besides
Azrael’s entire religious merchandise empire, that is.
[All five sub-account holders are operating within established
parameters. Lady Shadowfax has demonstrated exemplary efficiency with
the Shadow Essence collection operation. Lord Taxman has implemented a
meticulous inventory control system for the Twilight Crystals. Mistress
Pokey has expanded Nightshade cultivation by 47% using approved
resources only. Duke Splashypants remains enthusiastic but compliant after
receiving clarification regarding “appropriate package inserts.”]
“And the fifth account holder?” I asked, though I already knew the
answer.
[General Smashington’s sub-account for Demon-Forged Metals shows
minimal activity. The general appears to be delegating most operations to
Craftsman372, who has demonstrated surprising aptitude for customer
communications despite an unfortunate tendency to describe products as
“worthy of crushing enemy skulls.”]
I smiled, picturing the massive general trying to delicately package
metal items while dictating sales pitches to his subordinate. The sub-
account system had been Supremo’s idea—surprisingly useful despite
coming with a hard-sell pitch about “hierarchical commerce optimization.”
Each department head could now manage their specific resource collection
and fulfillment without my constant oversight, while I maintained control of
the main account and all financial aspects.
Well, most financial aspects. Apparently, Azrael had been running a
parallel religious merchandise operation this whole time.
“How are customers receiving their orders?” I asked, still a bit fuzzy on
the interdimensional logistics.
[OpenSesame utilizes a three-tier delivery system. Premium customers
receive direct portal delivery to their specified locations. Standard
customers collect their purchases from designated OpenSesame access
points in their respective realms. Economy shipping utilizes
interdimensional courier entities for final delivery. Current customer
satisfaction rating: 96.7%.]
“And no one questions where these products come from? Isn’t Iferona
supposed to be some scary demon realm?”
[Helpdesk Supreme has marketed ‘Iferona Exports’ as a premium
purveyor of exotic dark realm commodities. Many customers specifically
seek products from forbidden or dangerous realms, believing they possess
greater potency. Your realm’s intimidating reputation has been converted to
a unique selling proposition, resulting in premium pricing opportunities.]
“So our bad reputation is actually good for business? That’s…
surprisingly convenient.”
[Indeed. Helpdesk Supreme’s market analysis indicates that products
from “The Dreaded Dark Realm of Iferona, ruled by the Divine Lord
Lucien” command a 43% price premium over identical items from more
benign sources. This unit has subtly enhanced this perception through
strategic product descriptions emphasizing forbidden knowledge, ancient
power, and exclusive access.]
“Set up automatic transfers to replenish the treasury as the revenue
comes in. We need to make sure we’re covering the ongoing camp
expenses.”
[Transfer protocols established. Based on current growth projections,
‘Iferona Exports’—combined with Lord Azrael’s ‘Divine Lucien’
merchandise line—will fully offset relief camp expenditures within 12 days,
with increasing profit margins thereafter. Would valued customer like to
expand operations to include additional product lines?]
“No more expansion for now,” I said firmly. “I’m still processing the
fact that Azrael is running a religion based around me and selling my
personal items as religious relics.”
[Understood. Helpdesk Supreme will maintain current operations. This
unit notes that Duke Splashypants has requested permission to name a new
strain of particularly potent Void Mushrooms ‘Lucien’s Midnight Delight.’
Would you like to approve this product naming?]
“Absolutely not,” I hissed, glancing nervously at Azrael, who was
thankfully still arranging my breakfast with his back turned. “No products
named after me, especially not aphrodisiac mushrooms!”
[Request denied. This unit will inform Duke Splashypants that product
naming requires prior approval through proper channels. Helpdesk Supreme
has updated your merchant dashboard with real-time revenue tracking for
your convenience. Will there be anything else?]
“No, that’s all for now. Thank you.”
[Helpdesk Supreme is pleased to contribute to your realm’s financial
stability. This unit reminds valued customer that merchant account holders
qualify for our exclusive ‘Interdimensional Trade Domination’ seminar,
available for just 10,000 OpenTokens.]
“Goodbye, Supremo,” I said firmly.
The interface dimmed just as Azrael turned around with my breakfast
tray. “Did you say something, my lord?” he asked, his crimson eyes
narrowed slightly.
“Just talking to myself,” I replied, unable to suppress a small smile of
satisfaction despite my lingering shock at discovering Azrael’s side
business. “Planning the day ahead.”
I watched as Azrael meticulously arranged my breakfast—each item
placed with reverent precision, his movements almost ceremonial. Had he
always done this? Was I only noticing now because I knew about his…
devotional activities?
The void commerce solution was working better than I’d anticipated,
even if it had taken an unexpected turn into religious merchandise. With the
treasury steadily replenishing itself, we could maintain the relief efforts
while beginning the more ambitious rebuilding projects. And all it took was
selling some fancy mushrooms, shadow goo, and apparently my bathwater
to interdimensional customers.
My business professors would be so proud. Or horrified. Possibly both.
After bathing and dressing (with a new awareness of Azrael’s careful
collection of my discarded bathwater), I wolfed down breakfast (the kitchen
had finally mastered proper scrambled eggs after three disastrous attempts
that I’m pretty sure violated the Geneva Convention) and headed to the
council chamber where the department heads gathered each morning.
The room fell silent as I entered, the assembled demons rising and
bowing deeply. I waved them back to their seats, still not entirely
comfortable with the whole “worship me” vibe despite a month of practice.
“Morning, everyone. What’s new in the realm of perpetual twilight and
questionable infrastructure?” I asked, dropping into the ornate chair at the
head of the table.
Lady Shadowfax’s shadowy form rippled slightly as she spoke first.
“My lord, seventy-three new refugees arrived before dawn—primarily
goblins with a small contingent of marsh sprites from the deep forest
interior.”
“Marsh sprites? That’s new,” I said, leaning forward with interest.
“They’re from the deep forest, right? Not the edges?”
“Correct, my lord,” Lady Shadowfax confirmed. “Their arrival suggests
the disturbance is spreading deeper into the forest interior. They speak of
‘shadows that eat light’ consuming everything in their path.”
“Shadows that eat light,” I repeated, drumming my fingers on the table.
“That’s both poetically terrifying and completely unhelpful as a description.
Did anyone get a clear look at whatever’s causing this?”
“The sprites claim that those who look directly at the phenomenon
‘become shadows themselves,’” Lady Shadowfax replied. “Most
informative was their report that the disturbance began three nights ago in
their region, suggesting an accelerating pattern of expansion.”
Great. Just what we needed—a monster buffet working its way through
the local ecosystem like me at an all-you-can-eat pizza bar.
“Double the perimeter patrols,” I ordered. “And have your agents
interview these sprites thoroughly. I want every detail they can remember,
no matter how insignificant it seems.”
“It shall be done, my lord,” Lady Shadowfax inclined her head slightly.
General Smashington cleared his throat—a sound like boulders
tumbling down a mountainside. “My troops report increased activity along
the western edge as well. The creatures that normally avoid the forest
boundary are fleeing deeper into our territory.”
“Are they threatening the camp?” I asked, immediately concerned.
“Not directly, my lord. My soldiers have established a containment
perimeter. But the wildlife displacement is… unprecedented.” The massive
four-armed general shifted uncomfortably. “Creatures that are natural
enemies have been observed traveling together, united by common fear.”
That was genuinely concerning. When predator and prey decide to
buddy up, you know something scarier than both of them is on the menu.
“Keep me updated on any changes,” I said. “We may need to consider a
direct investigation soon.”
“With all due respect, my lord,” Azrael interjected smoothly from his
position behind my chair, “such an expedition would require extensive
preparation and security measures. The unknown nature of the threat
demands caution.”
“Noted,” I replied, recognizing the protective concern beneath his
formal tone. “But I’m not sending others to face something I’m not willing
to confront myself. We’ll discuss specifics when we have more
information.”
Healer 47’s delicate antennae quivered slightly as she spoke next. “My
lord, I am pleased to report continued improvement in all medical cases.
The void supplements have produced unprecedented recovery rates,
particularly in the most severely malnourished patients.”
“That’s great news.” I smiled. “Any unexpected side effects I should
know about?”
The mothlike demon hesitated, her compound eyes reflecting the room’s
light in kaleidoscopic patterns. “There have been… physical changes in
some patients, my lord. Nothing concerning but noteworthy. Enhanced
natural features, increased magical resonance, accelerated healing beyond
normal parameters.”
“I’ve noticed similar changes in the castle staff.” I nodded. “And some
of the citizens during my camp visits.”
“Most fascinating is the correlation between duration of void provision
consumption and the extent of enhancement,” Healer 47 continued, her
scientific curiosity clearly piqued. “Those who have consumed the greatest
quantities show the most pronounced changes.”
I glanced at Magister Wiggles, whose translucent skin seemed more
vibrant today, the magical patterns swirling beneath it more complex and
colorful than I remembered. “Magister, any theories on what’s causing these
changes?”
The ancient scholar demon’s eyes lit up—literally glowing with
excitement. “My preliminary investigations suggest an interdimensional
resonance effect, my lord! The void products appear to contain trace
elements unknown in our realm, which catalyze latent magical potential in
our physiology!”
“In laymen’s term, please.” I sighed.
“The void food makes us more of what we already are,” Magister
Wiggles simplified, his magical patterns swirling faster. “It enhances our
innate qualities and abilities. The effect is most pronounced in those with
greater magical potential to begin with.”
That explained why the high-ranking demons showed more dramatic
changes. As naturally powerful beings, they had more “potential” for the
void products to enhance.
“Is it dangerous?” I asked, the responsible adult in me briefly making an
appearance.
“Quite the contrary, my lord!” Magister Wiggles practically vibrated
with enthusiasm. “All observed changes have been beneficial—increased
strength, enhanced magical capacity, accelerated healing, improved
cognitive function! I have documented a seventeen percent increase in my
own arcane calculations!”
“Keep studying it,” I instructed. “I want regular reports on these
changes, especially any long-term effects.”
The meeting continued with updates from other department heads.
Mistress Pokey reported progress on agricultural experiments, her bark-like
skin now showing a subtle luminescence that hadn’t been there a month
ago. Duke Splashypants presented the initial yields from the Murk Marshes,
his webbed hands gesturing proudly as he described the variety of edible
plants and creatures now being harvested. Lord Taxman detailed the
treasury status, his spectacles glinting as he adjusted them with hands that
seemed more precisely articulated than before.

OceanofPDF.com
 19

Lucien/Beau

A
fter the initial reports on camp conditions and the forest threat, Lord
Taxman cleared his throat, his spectacles gleaming with unusual
enthusiasm.
“My lord, if I may present the commercial reports?” He produced a
ledger bound in what appeared to be shimmering shadow leather. “The
treasury situation has been… transformed.”
He opened the ledger with a flourish that seemed almost theatrical for
the normally stiff demon. “For the first time in Iferona’s recorded history,
we are generating external revenue! The void commerce system has
produced more income in one month than five years of internal taxation!”
The small, meticulous demon was practically vibrating with excitement,
his voice rising an octave. “We have customers in thirty-seven realms!
Repeat orders have increased by one hundred forty-two percent! Our
customer satisfaction rating exceeds ninety-six percent!”
“I’m glad it’s working out,” I said, amused by his uncharacteristic
animation.
“Working out? My lord, it is REVOLUTIONARY!” Lord Taxman
clutched the ledger to his chest like a beloved child. “For centuries, we’ve
struggled to extract minimal taxes from an impoverished population. Now
we’re selling basic items from our realm for premium prices to wealthy
external customers!”
He turned to the other department heads. “Your commercial reports,
please. Lady Shadowfax, your Shadow Essence operation first.”
 Lady Shadowfax inclined her head slightly. “The extraction teams have
doubled output using the void equipment. The new containment vessels
prevent degradation during storage, allowing us to fulfill larger orders. I
request permission to acquire additional extraction equipment and expand
operations into the northern caverns.”
“Granted.” I nodded. “Supremo can process that order today.”
Duke Splashypants surged forward eagerly, webbed hands gesturing
dramatically. “My lord! The Void Mushroom cultivation has exceeded all
expectations! We have developed three new variants with enhanced
properties! The ‘Midnight Velvet’ strain has proven particularly popular
among customers seeking… intimate enhancements.”
He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I have prepared a proposal for
expanding our cultivation chambers using void hydroponics technology.
With your approval, we could triple production within two weeks!”
“Approved, but remember our agreement about naming conventions,” I
said firmly. “No mushrooms named after me, especially the ones with…
intimate applications.”
“Of course, my lord,” Duke Splashypants agreed, looking only slightly
disappointed.
Mistress Pokey’s bark-like skin seemed to glow with subtle
bioluminescence as she reported next. “The Nightshade Pollen harvest has
been exceptional. Using the void cultivation techniques, we’ve increased
potency by thirty-seven percent while reducing growth time. The ‘Twilight
Lover’s Package’ combining our pollen with Duke Splashypants’
mushrooms has proven quite lucrative.”
She produced a small vial containing what looked like iridescent dust.
“We’ve developed a new product—Luminous Pollen Extract—with
applications in luxury cosmetics. Initial market testing suggests potential
pricing at five hundred OpenTokens per vial.”
“That’s… impressive,” I admitted, watching the pollen shimmer as it
caught the light.
“I request permission to acquire additional greenhouse equipment and
specialized harvesting tools,” she continued. “The void catalog offers
automated pollination systems that would increase yield by approximately
sixty percent.”
“Make a list of what you need,” I told her. “We’ll place the order this
afternoon.”
 General Smashington cleared his throat—a sound like boulders
tumbling down a mountainside. “The Demon-Forged Metals operation
has… encountered certain challenges.”
“By which he means he broke three fulfillment terminals before
delegating the entire operation to Craftsman372,” Lord Taxman interjected
dryly.
The massive general shifted uncomfortably. “My hands are not designed
for delicate packaging.”
“That’s fine,” I assured him. “Play to your strengths. How’s
Craftsman372 handling things?”
“Surprisingly well,” General Smashington admitted. “Though his
product descriptions require constant editing. His initial listings described
our ceremonial daggers as ‘perfect for disemboweling enemies and
displaying their entrails as warnings to others.’”
“Not exactly marketing copy that appeals to a broad audience,” I noted.
“Indeed. We have revised our approach to emphasize ‘collector value’
and ‘authentic demonic craftsmanship’ instead.” The general produced a
tablet showing revised listings with professional images of weapons
displayed against dark backgrounds. “Sales have improved significantly
since the adjustments.”
“I need additional forge equipment,” he continued. “The void catalog
offers automated tempering systems that would improve production
efficiency while maintaining traditional crafting techniques.”
“Add it to the list.” I nodded.
Magister Wiggles practically vibrated with excitement as his turn came.
“My lord! Our Twilight Crystal exports have attracted significant academic
interest! Three arcane universities have requested exclusive research
partnerships! I have drafted potential collaboration agreements for your
review!”
The ancient scholar’s translucent skin swirled with magical patterns that
seemed more complex and colorful than I remembered. “With your
permission, I would like to acquire specialized void equipment for crystal
refinement and classification. The enhanced crystals show remarkable
properties when processed using void techniques!”
“Approved,” I said, making a mental note to review those collaboration
agreements carefully. The last thing we needed was magical researchers
poking around Iferona’s secrets without proper oversight.
 Throughout the reports, I couldn’t help but notice the physical changes
in all the department heads. Nothing dramatic, but unmistakable to someone
who saw them daily. They were becoming more defined, more vibrant
versions of themselves—as if someone had adjusted their contrast and
saturation settings.
I also found myself watching Azrael from the corner of my eye, seeing
his attentive posture and meticulous note-taking in a new light. Was he
recording which items I touched during the meeting for future “Divine
Relics” listings? When he carefully collected my empty teacup, was he
planning to preserve it as a “Sacred Vessel of the Dark Lord’s Sustenance”?
The thought was both amusing and slightly unsettling.
Lord Taxman cleared his throat again, drawing my attention back to the
meeting. “There is one more commercial matter, my lord. Several
department heads have expressed interest in expanding our product lines to
include… premium offerings.”
“Premium offerings?” I asked, immediately suspicious.
“Enhanced versions of our standard exports,” he explained smoothly.
“Limited edition items with… special provenance.”
I narrowed my eyes, wondering if this was somehow connected to
Azrael’s unauthorized merchandise operation. “What kind of special
provenance?”
Lord Taxman adjusted his spectacles nervously. “Items prepared in your
presence or briefly exposed to your… aura. Nothing invasive, of course!
Merely leveraging the natural mystique surrounding your person for
commercial advantage.”
So they all wanted to get in on the “Lucien merchandise” game.
Fantastic.
“We’ll discuss this another time,” I said firmly. “For now, focus on
expanding our core product lines and improving efficiency.”
“Of course, my lord,” Lord Taxman agreed, though I noticed several
disappointed glances exchanged among the department heads. Apparently,
everyone wanted a piece of the Dark Lord merchandise market that Azrael
had pioneered.
“Before we conclude,” I said as the reports wound down, “I want
updates on the city rebuilding preparations. The planning council meets this
afternoon, and I need to know where we stand.”
 Sir Formalitee practically levitated with excitement, his paperlike skin
rustling as he consulted his ever-present clipboard. “My lord! The
preliminary designs are complete! The infrastructure schematics have been
finalized! The zoning proposals await your divine approval!”
“Take a breath, Formalitee,” I suggested, amused by his enthusiasm.
“You look like you’re about to spontaneously combust, and I’m pretty sure
that would violate at least three of your beloved building codes.”
The administrative demon composed himself with visible effort.
“Forgive my exuberance, my lord. The void manuals have been most
illuminating! Revolutionary! Paradigm-shifting!”
“I can see that,” I said dryly. “Give me the highlights—what’s your
vision for the new Iferona?”
Sir Formalitee launched into a passionate overview of the rebuilding
plans, complete with elaborate hand gestures and the occasional reverential
pause when mentioning particularly exciting concepts like “integrated
sewage systems” or “zoned commercial districts.”
The core of the plan was solid—rebuilding the city with proper
infrastructure, organized districts, and modern amenities. The most
revolutionary aspect, at least to the demons, was the concept of multistory
buildings to maximize space efficiency.
“The apartment concept would allow us to house five times the
population in the same land area!” Sir Formalitee exclaimed, his eyes
shining with almost religious fervor. “Fifty-story structures with integrated
utilities and communal spaces!”
“Fifty stories might be a bit ambitious for our first attempt,” I cautioned.
“Let’s start with something more manageable—maybe twenty stories
maximum?”
“A most wise limitation, my lord,” Azrael murmured from behind me. I
didn’t need to turn around to know he was pleased by my deference to the
Dark Citadel’s symbolic height supremacy.
“Of course, my lord!” Sir Formalitee agreed instantly. “Twenty stories
would still represent a revolutionary advancement in our architectural
capabilities!”
The meeting concluded with assignments for each department head in
preparation for the afternoon planning council. As they filed out, still
discussing various aspects of the rebuilding effort, I remained seated,
contemplating the challenges ahead.
 “They’ve embraced your vision with remarkable enthusiasm,” Azrael
said once we were alone.
“People respond well when you don’t threaten to disembowel them for
having ideas,” I replied, stretching in my chair. “Who knew positive
reinforcement worked on demons too?”
“Indeed, my lord. Though I would note that certain… clarifications
regarding the consequences of opposition have also contributed to the
current cooperative atmosphere.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You mean your midnight visits to the noble
houses?”
“Merely educational discussions about the new paradigm,” Azrael said
smoothly. “I found most nobles to be quick studies once the parameters
were properly explained.”
“I bet.” I snorted. “Nothing motivates like the fear of losing fingers.”
“I would never presume to damage valuable noble property without
your explicit command, my lord,” Azrael replied, the picture of innocence.
“Merely… demonstrating potential outcomes of various choices.”
“Uh-huh.” I stood, deciding once again that some details were better left
to the imagination. “Let’s head to the camp. I want to see how those marsh
sprites are settling in, and I’m curious about these kitchen operations I keep
hearing about.”
Mr. Snuggles, who’d become something of a celebrity among the camp
children, flew us to the Ashen Fields just as the midday meal service was
beginning. The camp had transformed completely in the past week,
evolving from an emergency relief operation to something resembling a
small, functional city.
The most significant change was the central kitchen complex—a series
of large tents where cooking now happened on an industrial scale. I’d
stopped ordering ready-to-eat meals after the third day, realizing it would be
more economical and empowering to set up cooking facilities and buy bulk
ingredients instead. Also, there’s only so many times you can eat reheated
lasagna before your soul starts to die a little.
As we approached the dining area—a massive open tent with rows of
tables—the tantalizing aroma of tomato sauce, garlic, and freshly cooked
pasta filled the air. Citizens were already lining up with metal trays,
chatting animatedly as they waited their turn.
 “Let’s see what’s on the menu today,” I said, heading toward the serving
line.
A stout, four-armed demon in a sauce-splattered apron spotted us and
hurried over, wiping his hands frantically on his already messy apron. “Lord
Lucien! What an unexpected honor!” He dropped into a deep bow, nearly
upending a pot of bubbling marinara in the process.
“Chef Skillet427, right?” I asked, recalling the demon’s designation
from previous visits.
The chef beamed at being remembered. “Yes, my lord! You honor me
by recalling my designation!” He straightened proudly. “I have been
promoted to supervise the pasta station as of yesterday!”
“Congratulations on the promotion,” I said, genuinely pleased for him.
“What’s the specialty today?”
“Carbonara, my lord!” He gestured excitedly to a station where several
demons were tossing pasta with eggs, cheese, and small bits of crispy void
bacon. “A revolutionary technique! The eggs create a sauce without cream!
The citizens are most enthusiastic!”
“Mind if we observe the lunch service?” I asked, already moving
toward the serving line.
“We would be honored!” Chef Skillet427 practically vibrated with
excitement. “Perhaps my lord would care to taste our newest creation?”
Before I could answer, he rushed off and returned moments later with a
small plate of perfectly prepared carbonara. I took a bite and made an
involuntary sound of appreciation. It was genuinely delicious—creamy,
savory, with just the right balance of salt and pepper.
“This is excellent,” I told him, meaning it. “You’ve really mastered the
technique.”
Chef Skillet427 looked like he might pass out from joy. “The highest
praise! I shall have this plate bronzed and displayed in the culinary hall of
fame!”
“Maybe just write down the recipe instead,” I suggested, finishing the
sample. “Speaking of recipes, how are the cooking classes going?”
“Magnificently, my lord! We have identified many citizens with natural
culinary talent! Filekeeper38 has a remarkable intuition for flavor
balancing, and young Pencilcase has a gift for pasta shaping!”
I smiled at the names—citizens from the Office Supply District I’d
created on a whim while half-asleep during a gaming session. Who knew
my sleep-deprived naming choices would become revered identities in a
demon realm?
As we moved through the dining area, I watched citizens receiving their
meals and finding seats. The transformation from a month ago was striking.
Gone were the gaunt faces and desperate eyes. These demons looked
healthy, energetic, and—most surprisingly—happy.
At one table, a group of imp demons was experiencing spaghetti for the
first time, with mixed results. One particularly small imp named Stapler17
had somehow managed to get more sauce on his face than in his mouth,
while his companion, Paperclip42, was attempting to twirl the pasta with
comical concentration.
“You have to spin it against the spoon,” advised an elderly demon with
wispy hair who’d clearly mastered the technique. “Like this, young one.”
Paperclip42 watched in awe as the elder demonstrated, then attempted
to copy the motion. His face lit up with triumph when he successfully
captured a perfect forkful. “I did it! Look, Stapler17, I did it!”
“Congratulations,” I said, stopping by their table. “You’ve officially
mastered a skill that took me until college to figure out.”
The imps immediately tried to scramble to their feet, nearly upending
their trays in the process.
“Stay seated,” I said quickly. “No point in wasting perfectly good pasta
on the floor. How’s the food?”
“Magnificent, my lord!” Paperclip42 exclaimed, his eyes wide. “The
noodles are like nothing I’ve ever tasted!”
“Better than shadow fungus stew?” I asked with a grin.
“A thousand times better!” Stapler17 declared fervently, sauce still
decorating his face like abstract art. “I want to eat this forever!”
At another table, a family of goblin refugees was experiencing ramen
for the first time. The parents looked bewildered by the chopsticks, but their
children had adapted instantly, wielding them with surprising dexterity.
“The noodles dance in the broth!” exclaimed the youngest, a tiny goblin
girl with enormous eyes. “Like water snakes!”
“More, please!” demanded her brother, already finishing his bowl. “Best
food ever!”
Nearby, a group of what must be the newly arrived marsh sprites was
cautiously approaching the serving line. They were smaller than I’d
expected, with translucent skin that seemed to shift colors like oil on water.
They huddled together nervously, clearly overwhelmed by the noise and
activity.
“First time in the camp?” I asked, approaching them.
They immediately dropped to their knees, trembling visibly. “Dark
Lord!” one squeaked, voice barely audible. “We seek sanctuary from the
forest terror!”
“You’ve got it,” I assured them, motioning for them to stand. “No need
for kneeling here—save your knees for when you inevitably drop food on
the floor. What brought you out of the deep marsh?”
The sprites exchanged nervous glances before their apparent leader
spoke again. “Shadows that eat light, my lord. They came three nights ago,
consuming everything in their path. We fled with only our lives.”
“You know, just once I'd love to hear something helpful like ‘three-
headed purple monsters with a weakness for cheese.’ Did anyone actually
see these things directly? Like, monster-identification-chart directly?”
“No one sees them directly,” another sprite whispered. “Those who look
too long become shadows themselves.”
“Great. So we’re dealing with the demon realm equivalent of Medusa,
except with bonus shadow transformation instead of stone. Just what my
week needed.” Before I could ask more questions, Chef Skillet427 appeared
with small bowls of something that looked like risotto.
“Special preparation for our marsh friends!” he announced proudly.
“Rice with gentle seasonings, as I recalled reading that marsh sprites have
sensitive digestion!”
The sprites’ eyes widened at this thoughtful accommodation.
Cautiously, the leader took a bite, then made a sound of surprised pleasure.
“It tastes like home,” he said wonderingly. “Like the sacred grains that
grow in the deepest pools.”
“What’s your name?” I asked him. “Unless you prefer ‘Terrified
Translucent Guy,’ which works too, but might get confusing.”
“Ripple94, my lord,” he replied, bowing slightly. “And these are my
pod-mates, Bubble16 and Dewdrop73.”
I raised an eyebrow, surprised to hear the numerical designations from
forest dwellers. “You use numbered names, like the city demons? Did the
forest DMV assign those, or what?”
The sprite’s colors shifted slightly in what might have been
embarrassment. “Yes, my lord. Our ancestors believed that adopting the
Dark Lord’s naming customs would grant us protection. That those with
numbered designations were… recognized by your power.”
Wait, seriously? I was genuinely fascinated by this cultural adaptation.
So even in the deep forest, my naming influence reached them? That’s…
weirdly flattering and slightly concerning. I was half-asleep when I came up
with most of those naming conventions.
“The ancient stories say that those without numbers are… unclaimed,”
Bubble16 added softly. “When the shadows came, many of our kind who
had rejected the numbered names were the first to fall.”
“And now the Dark Lord has taken us in,” Dewdrop73 whispered, her
voice tinged with awe. “Just as the legends promised.”
“Right, yes, exactly as I… definitely planned all along.” I nodded
sagely. “Welcome to the camp, Ripple94. Enjoy your meal and get some
rest. Someone will show you to your assigned quarters after lunch.”
As we continued through the dining area, I was struck by the
atmosphere of community that had developed. Demons of different types
who would never have interacted in the old Iferona were sharing tables,
passing condiments, and even teaching each other how to use unfamiliar
utensils. Children played between the tables, their laughter ringing loud
across the area.
“It’s working,” I said quietly to Azrael. “Not just the feeding part, but
the whole… community thing. It’s like watching the world’s most
successful diversity training program, except with actual demons instead of
Karen from accounting.”
Azrael observed the scene with his usual careful neutrality. “The void
provisions have certainly produced unexpected social effects, my lord.”
“Food brings people together.” I shrugged. “Universal constant,
apparently even in demon realms. Nothing says ‘let’s be friends’ like
carbohydrates and cheese.”
We completed our inspection of the kitchen facilities, where I ordered
additional supplies and made notes about expanding the cooking classes.
The camp’s population continued to grow daily, and we needed more
trained cooks to keep up with demand.
Honestly, I couldn’t help but notice how much the citizens’ appearances
had changed in the month since we’d established the camp. The emergency
clothing I’d ordered initially—basic sweatpants, t-shirts, and hoodies—had
evolved into something uniquely Iferonian.
 A group of imp children raced past, wearing what looked like sturdy
cargo pants paired with fantasy-inspired tunics. The mash-up shouldn’t
have worked, but it did—Earth practicality meets demon realm aesthetic,
like cosplay that’s actually functional. Their feet were protected by boots
that somehow combined the comfort of sneakers with medieval durability—
perfect for the rough terrain of the camp and the inevitable mud puddle
jumping that seems universal to all children regardless of species.
“The sewing machines were definitely a good investment,” I said,
watching a goblin family dressed in what appeared to be reinforced denim
pants with intricately embroidered vests. My inner Project Runway judge
was impressed. The goblin patriarch’s vest featured what I assumed were
tribal symbols but could just as easily have been demonic emojis for all I
knew.
“Indeed, my lord,” Azrael replied with his usual butler-who-swallowed-
a-dictionary formality. “The Void Fashion Guild has become quite the
enterprise. Their main production tent operates continuously now.”
Near the eastern edge of the camp stood what could only be described
as a demon sweatshop—except without the exploitation and child labor, so
really just a busy garment factory. The massive tent hummed with activity,
silhouettes of workers visible through the canvas walls. Some bent over
sewing machines while others cut patterns on large tables or dipped fabrics
into huge vats of dye outside. The whole operation had the chaotic
efficiency of a Black Friday sale, minus the trampling.
As we approached, I got a better look at the division of labor that had
naturally developed. A group of cave dwarves, with their precise hands and
meticulous attention to detail, operated the more complex machines. Their
crafting expertise, normally applied to metalwork and stonecraft, had
translated surprisingly well to industrial sewing. One dwarf was modifying
a sewing machine with what looked suspiciously like parts from a
dismantled clock, muttering about “efficiency ratios” and “optimal stitch
velocity.” Typical dwarf behavior—give them a toaster and they’ll turn it
into a rocket engine by dinner.
“The dwarven contingent has revolutionized the production process,”
Azrael observed, stating the obvious with his trademark gravitas. “Their
understanding of mechanical principles has allowed them to modify the
machines for greater efficiency.”
 Several goblins darted between workstations like caffeinated ferrets,
carrying materials and finished products with surprising organization. Their
natural agility and speed made them perfect for the logistics side of the
operation. One particularly determined goblin was balancing a stack of
folded garments nearly twice his height, navigating the busy workspace
with the skill of a New York bike messenger.
“The goblins have found their niche as well,” I noted, watching one use
a clipboard nearly as big as himself to check off deliveries. “They’re
everywhere in the camp now, aren’t they?”
“They have integrated remarkably well,” Azrael agreed, in what was
probably the understatement of the century. “Their tribes have divided
themselves among various essential services—message delivery, supply
distribution, maintenance tasks. Their size allows them access to spaces
larger demons cannot navigate, and they work with unexpected diligence.”
A tall demon woman approached us, bowing so deeply I was worried
she might tip over. Her outfit was what my fashion-challenged brain could
only describe as “hoodie couture”—a simple sweatshirt transformed into an
elegant cowled robe with embroidery that seemed to shimmer when she
moved, like someone had figured out how to sew with fiber optics.
“My lord,” she said, her voice rich and melodious, the kind of voice that
could sell ice to polar bears and make them think they got a bargain. “I am
Seamstress342, head of the Void Textile Guild. We wish to express our
gratitude for the machines and materials you have provided. Our production
capacity has increased tenfold.”
“You’ve done amazing work,” I said, genuinely impressed by the
operation. “How many people are working here now?”
“Nearly two hundred, my lord,” she replied proudly. “Mostly women,
but our head designers are quite diverse.” She gestured toward a group
examining design sketches—among them were several male demons with
measuring tapes draped around their necks like fashion victim scarves, a
forest elf with intricate leaf patterns tattooed on his hands, and a particularly
fashion-forward goblin standing on a stool to reach the table, wearing what
appeared to be a miniature version of a runway designer’s all-black
ensemble.
“Designer27 has a particular gift for structural innovations,” she
explained, indicating a tall male demon with four arms, each holding a
different design tool. The guy looked like a one-man design team,
simultaneously sketching, measuring, cutting, and pinning. Talk about
multitasking.
Inside the tent, demons of all types worked together with the
synchronized chaos of a well-rehearsed flash mob. Some operated the
sewing machines with practiced precision, while others hand-stitched
detailed embellishments. The forest elves, few in number but clearly the
artsy types of the group, were applying embroidery that seemed to capture
and reflect light in ways that defied the laws of physics.
“We’ve begun creating specialized designs for different professions,”
Seamstress342 continued enthusiastically. “The miners have reinforced
coveralls, the healers have garments resistant to fluids, and the farmers have
lightweight, breathable attire that protects from the elements.”
A group of children ran by, their outfits both adorable and practical—
bright colors, reinforced knees, and clever adaptations for wings, tails, or
extra limbs. One little demon girl with butterfly wings had a specially
designed backpack with wing slots, allowing her to flutter a few inches off
the ground while keeping her school supplies secure. It was the kind of
practical innovation that made me wonder why human clothing designers
couldn’t figure out decent women’s pockets.
“The children’s clothing has been our greatest success,” Seamstress342
said, watching them with obvious pride. “Durable enough to withstand play,
yet comfortable and expressive. The parents report they’ve never worn out a
single piece, despite their best efforts.”
“That’s exactly the kind of innovation I was hoping for,” I told her,
making a mental note to order more sewing supplies. “Do you need
additional materials or equipment?”
Her eyes widened like I’d just offered her the moon on a stick. “You
would provide more?”
“Of course. This is exactly what these resources are for—improving life
for everyone.”
As we continued our inspection, I noticed how the citizens’ pride in
their appearance had transformed their demeanor over the past month. They
stood straighter, moved with more confidence, took obvious care of their
new garments. It wasn’t just about staying warm or covered anymore—it
was about identity, about dignity. It was the same boost I used to get from
wearing my one “good” outfit to job interviews, except multiplied across an
entire population.
 “The simple provision of adequate clothing has had unexpected social
effects,” Azrael observed, echoing my thoughts with his usual talent for
stating the obvious in fancy language. “The citizens display increased
confidence and social cohesion.”
“Clothes make the demon,” I quipped, watching a group of young
demons comparing their custom-modified outfits with obvious pride.
It was more than just practical—it was a visible symbol of change, of
improvement. Every citizen wearing these durable, comfortable clothes was
walking proof that life in Iferona was getting better. And from the way they
carried themselves, they knew it. My inner retail therapy addict totally
understood—sometimes a new outfit really can make you feel like you can
take on the world, or in this case, rebuild a demon realm from the ground
up.
As we made our way back toward the center of the camp, I noticed a
commotion near the perimeter. A group of nobles had arrived, but unlike
their previous visits, they weren’t just observing from a distance. They were
actively engaged with the camp administrators, gesturing enthusiastically at
what appeared to be architectural drawings.
“What’s happening over there?” I asked, changing direction to
investigate.
“I believe those are representatives from House Lumina and House
Vortex, my lord,” Azrael replied. “They have been among the more…
progressive noble houses since your conversation with Lord Superiore.”
Conversation. Right. That was one way to describe whatever midnight
visit Azrael had paid them that had resulted in their sudden enthusiasm for
cooperation. I still hadn’t asked for details, figuring some things were better
left to the imagination—like whatever happens in a gas station bathroom or
the inner workings of hot dogs.
As we approached, the nobles immediately dropped to their knees,
bowing deeply. Unlike Lord Superiore’s grudging deference, their respect
seemed genuine, if still tinged with healthy fear.
“Rise,” I said, examining the drawings spread out on a makeshift table.
They appeared to be designs for multistory buildings, elegantly rendered
with surprising attention to detail. “What’s all this?”
“My lord,” the tallest noble said, rising carefully. “I am Lady
Insertnamehere of House Lumina. After studying the void manuals you so
generously provided, we have developed proposals for the commercial
district of the rebuilt city.”
I suppressed a smile at her name—one of my placeholder titles that had
apparently become a revered noble designation. “Commercial district?”
“Indeed, my lord.” She gestured to the drawings. “These are designs for
what the manuals call ‘boutiques’ and ‘department stores.’ We believe they
would serve as excellent venues for displaying and selling the remarkable
void garments and other products.”
I leaned closer, examining the designs. They were actually quite good—
elegant multistory buildings with large display windows, organized around
a central plaza with fountains and seating areas. Someone had clearly been
studying the architecture sections of those manuals very carefully.
“This is impressive work,” I admitted. “But why the sudden interest in
commercial development? Last I checked, you nobles were more into the
whole ‘hoarding resources and exploiting the peasants’ business model.”
Lady Insertnamehere had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “My
lord, the noble houses have traditionally derived income from land holdings
and resource control. With the… changes in resource distribution, we have
been exploring alternative revenue sources.”
Translation: Now that I’d cut off their ability to hoard necessities and
extort the population, they were pivoting to retail. Capitalism finds a way,
even in demon realms.
“And we have discovered a genuine passion for these void designs,”
added a younger noble with an elaborate collar that made him look like he
was being eaten by an origami swan. “The fashion concepts, the
architectural innovations—they’re revolutionary! We’ve already formed a
preliminary Fashion Guild to study and reproduce the void garments.”
“A Fashion Guild?” I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of demon
fashionistas. “What’s next? Demon’s Next Top Model? ‘I’m sorry, Horns
McGee, you’ve been eliminated from the competition. Please pack your
pitchfork and go.’”
“My lord?” The young noble—Baron Figureitoutlater, according to the
signet ring he wore—looked confused by the reference.
“Never mind. Just a void realm joke.” I flipped through their designs,
genuinely impressed. They’d taken Earth fashion concepts and adapted
them to demon aesthetics, creating something unique and actually quite
stylish. Flowing garments with asymmetrical cuts, structured pieces with
unexpected details, all designed to accommodate various demon
physiologies.
“These are good,” I said, surprising myself with how much I meant it.
“Really good, actually. Who knew demons had a flair for fashion? Though I
suppose the whole ‘gothic horror’ aesthetic you’ve been rocking for
centuries should have been a clue.”
Baron Figureitoutlater practically glowed with pride. “Thank you, my
lord! We’ve also begun experimenting with culinary arts based on the void
recipes. The combination of void ingredients with local spices has produced
extraordinary results!”
“The void-enhanced food appears to significantly amplify magical
abilities when properly prepared,” Lady Insertnamehere added. “Our
household chef discovered this accidentally when combining void ‘black
pepper’ with shadow root. The resulting dish increased magical capacity by
nearly thirty percent for several hours.”
That caught my attention. “Thirty percent? Just from seasoning? That’s
like getting a power boost from salt and pepper. Next you’ll tell me oregano
grants immortality.”
“Indeed, my lord. Different combinations appear to enhance different
abilities. We’ve begun systematic testing with volunteer subjects.”
Well, that explained the nobles’ sudden interest. If void food could be
used to enhance magical abilities, it represented a new form of power—one
they naturally wanted to control. Some things never change, even across
dimensions.
But maybe that wasn’t entirely a bad thing. If the nobles were
channeling their ambition into fashion, food, and commerce rather than
exploitation and hoarding, it represented progress of a sort. I’d take demon
Gucci over demon feudalism any day.
“I want detailed reports on these enhancement effects,” I said. “And any
commercial development will need to comply with the new city planning
guidelines. No monopolies, fair wages for workers, and reasonable pricing
for consumers.”
“Of course, my lord,” Lady Insertnamehere agreed quickly. “We seek
only to contribute to your glorious vision for a renewed Iferona.”
Sure you do, I thought. But outwardly I nodded. “I look forward to
seeing your formal proposals at the planning meeting this afternoon.”
 As we continued our inspection, Azrael gave me a sidelong glance.
“You seem pleased with the nobles’ initiative, my lord.”
“I’m cautiously optimistic,” I replied. “Self-interest is a powerful
motivator. If they can make money while actually contributing something
useful, everybody wins. It’s like when oil companies suddenly discover
renewable energy—I don’t care why they’re doing it as long as the result is
positive.”
“A most pragmatic approach,” he observed. “Though I would advise
continued vigilance. Old habits are not easily abandoned.”
After completing our camp inspection, we returned to the castle to
prepare for the afternoon planning council. As we walked through the
corridors, I couldn’t help but notice that Azrael himself seemed different
somehow. Nothing dramatic, but there was a subtle change to his
appearance. His already striking features seemed more defined, the crimson
of his eyes deeper and more luminous, his midnight-black hair now having
an almost iridescent quality when the light caught it.
“You look different,” I said before I could stop myself.
Azrael froze, his perfect composure momentarily disrupted. “My lord?”
“The void food,” I clarified. “It’s affecting you too, isn’t it? You look…
enhanced.”
He seemed genuinely taken aback by the observation. “I… had not
noticed any change in my appearance, my lord.”
“Well, I have. It’s subtle but definitely there.” I studied him more
openly now, noting how his already impressive physique seemed more
defined beneath his impeccable butler’s attire. “It’s a good change. You
were already intimidatingly perfect—now you’re just showing off.”
Was that a flicker of pleasure in his expression? It was gone too quickly
to be sure, but I could have sworn Azrael looked momentarily pleased by
the compliment.
“If my appearance pleases you, my lord, then I am satisfied,” he said,
his voice perfectly controlled once more.
As we neared the grand meeting hall where the planning council would
gather, I wondered about these physical changes. If regular Earth products
were causing demons to evolve, what did that mean for the future of
Iferona? And what might it mean for me—technically human but now
inhabiting a demon lord’s body?
 Questions for another time. Right now, we had a city to rebuild, starting
with proper sewage systems—because even in a demon realm, nobody
should have to live with medieval plumbing.

OceanofPDF.com
 20

Lucien/Beau

T
he grand meeting hall had been transformed for the afternoon planning
council. Gone were the dusty tapestries depicting various demon
conquests and torture scenes that had previously adorned the walls—
seriously, who decorates with “101 Ways to Disembowel Your Enemies”?
Instead, detailed architectural drawings and city maps covered every
available surface. A massive scale model of Iferona dominated the center of
the room, surrounded by smaller models showing specific districts and
building designs.
Sir Formalitee had outdone himself with the preparations, creating what
looked like a professional urban planning office. He fluttered nervously
around the displays, adjusting models by millimeters and straightening
papers that were already perfectly aligned.
“Someone’s excited,” I murmured to Azrael as we approached the hall.
“I haven’t seen anyone this worked up since they announced a new season
of The Great British Bake Off. Though in this case, it’s more like ‘The
Great Demonic Build-Off.’”
“Sir Formalitee has always been… thorough in his administrative
duties,” Azrael replied. “Though I admit his current enthusiasm exceeds
historical parameters.”
“That’s one way of putting it. The man’s about to vibrate through the
floor. I’m worried we’ll need to scrape him off the ceiling before this is
over.”
 The camp had evolved far beyond my initial expectations. What started
as emergency relief had transformed into a stable community structure. The
kitchens now operated with professional efficiency, the medical facilities
had expanded to include preventative care, and educational programs for
children and adults were flourishing. But the most exciting development
was today's meeting—the culmination of weeks of planning for the actual
rebuilding of Iferona itself.
As we entered, the room fell silent. Unlike my regular briefings with
just the department heads, this session included representatives from
various citizen groups, guild masters, noble houses, and technical experts
who had been studying the reference materials. All rose and bowed deeply
as I approached.
“Please, sit,” I said, waving them back to their seats. “We’ve got a lot to
cover, and I’d rather not waste time on formalities. Also, if Sir Formalitee
has to wait any longer to start his presentation, I think he might actually
explode, and I just had this suit cleaned. Blood and viscera are so hard to
get out of silk.”
A ripple of surprised laughter moved through the room—still tentative,
but more genuine than it would have been a month ago. Progress, definitely.
I took my place at the head of the table, Azrael standing at my right as
always. “Let’s begin with an overview of the proposed plan. Sir Formalitee,
you have the floor before you wear a hole in it with your pacing.”
The administrative demon practically levitated with excitement as he
moved to the center of the room. “Esteemed colleagues, honored
representatives, and most exalted lord,” he began, his voice taking on a
ceremonial quality. “Today we embark on a journey that will transform
Iferona from a crumbling remnant of past glory into a beacon of innovation
and prosperity!”
He gestured dramatically to the central model, which I now realized was
illuminated from within, certain areas glowing with different colored lights.
“Behold, the New Iferona! Designed according to the most advanced void
principles of urban planning, with integrated systems for water distribution,
waste management, transportation, and energy circulation!”
A murmur of appreciation ran through the room. Even I was impressed
by the model’s complexity and apparent functionality. Someone had spent
way too many hours on this thing, but the results were undeniably cool.
 Sir Formalitee pointed to a glowing blue section near the center. “The
Administrative District!” he announced with the fervor of a televangelist.
“Centered around a magnificent Grand Council Building where all
departments may collaborate in unprecedented efficiency!”
He paused, glancing nervously at Azrael. “Naturally, the Grand Council
Building will maintain a respectful height differential from the Dark Citadel
—no more than sixty percent of its glorious elevation—to preserve the
proper symbolic hierarchy of authority.”
I bit back a smile as Azrael gave a nearly imperceptible nod of approval.
Heaven forbid anyone build a taller phallus than the dark lord’s castle.
“The Administrative District will also feature specialized buildings for
each department,” Sir Formalitee continued, indicating smaller structures
surrounding the central building. “Lady Shadowfax’s Intelligence Division,
Lord Taxman’s Treasury Department, and General Smashington’s Military
Command will each have dedicated facilities designed to their specific
requirements!”
His paperlike finger moved to a vibrant purple section. “The
Commercial District! A revolutionary concept in Iferona’s economic
development! Traditional marketplaces enhanced with what the void
manuals call ‘retail establishments’!”
He lifted a small model from the table, revealing it to be a miniature
multistory building with tiny display windows. “Boutiques! Department
stores! Specialized food venues! All arranged around a central plaza with
fountains and seating areas to encourage social interaction and consumer
activity!”
“So basically a shopping mall,” I translated for the confused-looking
citizen representatives. “Places to buy stuff and hang out.”
“Precisely, my lord!” Sir Formalitee beamed. “Though the void term
‘shopping mall’ lacks the gravitas of ‘Commercial Activity Nexus,’ which is
how we’ve designated it in the official documentation.”
Of course they had. Bureaucrats were gonna bureaucrat, even in demon
form.
His attention shifted to a large green area. “The Residential Districts!
Completely reimagined to maximize both population density and quality of
life!”
He lifted another model, this one of a tall building with multiple levels.
“The apartment concept! Vertical living spaces with integrated utilities and
amenities! Each unit self-contained yet part of a larger community
structure!”
“How tall are these buildings meant to be?” Azrael inquired, his voice
neutral but his eyes narrowed slightly.
Sir Formalitee nearly dropped the model in his haste to answer. “The
preliminary designs suggested optimal efficiency at fifty stories, but we
have revised all plans to a maximum of twenty stories, as per your wise
guidance, my lord! No structure shall challenge the Dark Citadel’s
dominance of the skyline!”
Azrael nodded, apparently satisfied with this concession to royal
architectural penis-measuring. I made a mental note to ask him later if all
the demons were this obsessed with symbolic height or if it was just a castle
thing.
“Each residential tower will include communal spaces on the ground
level,” Sir Formalitee continued, pointing to features on the model.
“Gathering areas, play spaces for young demons, and small gardens
maintained by residents! The void manuals call this concept ‘community
building’—a most revolutionary approach to social cohesion!”
He moved on to a blue-green section near what appeared to be a river.
“The Industrial District! Completely redesigned with what the void manuals
call ‘environmental considerations’!”
He launched into an elaborate explanation of waste management
systems, water treatment facilities, and manufacturing zones designed to
minimize pollution. The technical details were mind-numbing, but the basic
concept was solid—keep the smelly, noisy stuff away from where people
live, and don’t dump toxic waste into the drinking water. Revolutionary
concepts in Iferona, apparently.
“The Educational District!” Sir Formalitee practically sang, pointing to
a yellow section. “Schools for all age groups! Libraries! Research facilities!
Training centers for vocational skills! All connected by safe pathways and
green spaces!”
He continued through each district, growing more animated with each
description. The Agricultural District with its vertical farming towers and
greenhouse complexes. The Recreational District with parks, sports
facilities, and entertainment venues. Each explanation was accompanied by
increasingly elaborate hand gestures and the occasional reverential pause
when mentioning particularly exciting concepts like “integrated sewage
systems” or “zoned commercial districts.”
“The most revolutionary aspect,” Sir Formalitee continued, his voice
dropping to an almost religious whisper, “is the implementation of building
codes and zoning regulations.” He held up a thick binder with an expression
of pure adoration. “Standardized requirements for structural integrity, fire
safety, accessibility, and environmental impact. Organized land use to
prevent incompatible activities from interfering with each other.
Preservation of historical significance while embracing modern
functionality.”
He said “building codes” with the same reverence most people reserved
for religious texts or love poetry. It was both amusing and oddly touching. I
half expected him to drop to one knee and propose marriage to the binder.
“The implementation will proceed in phases,” he explained, switching
to a more practical tone. “Beginning with infrastructure networks, followed
by essential services, then residential construction, and finally commercial
and recreational development. We estimate complete transformation within
three years, with significant improvements visible within six months.”
As Sir Formalitee concluded his overview, I opened the floor for
questions and comments. The room erupted into animated discussion, with
representatives from each group eager to contribute.
Clipboard88, representing the construction workers, stood first. “My
lord, the void machinery that arrived last week has revolutionized our
capabilities! The excavators and bulldozers have already cleared seventeen
percent of the condemned eastern district! However, we require additional
operators trained in the concrete pouring equipment to maintain our
schedule.”
“Consider it done.” I nodded. “I’ll order more training materials and
arrange for your most experienced operators to train others. Maybe we can
set up some kind of certification program—‘Heavy Machinery University’
or something equally impressive on a resume.”
Clipboard88 looked delighted at the suggestion. “An excellent idea, my
lord! Perhaps with ceremonial hard hats for graduates?”
“Sure, why not? Nothing says ‘I’m qualified to operate dangerous
equipment’ like a fancy hat. Works for college graduations.”
Lady Insertnamehere rose next, her elegant robes rustling softly. “The
Fashion Guild has finalized designs for the boutique interiors, my lord.”
She gestured to an assistant, who unrolled detailed drawings of sleek,
modern retail spaces. “We have incorporated void display concepts while
maintaining aesthetic elements unique to Iferona.”
I examined the drawings, genuinely impressed. In the month since our
first discussion about commercial development, the nobles had thrown
themselves into fashion and retail with surprising enthusiasm. The designs
showed elegant shops with display windows, fitting rooms, and customer
seating areas—all concepts that had been completely foreign to Iferona
before.
“These look great,” I told her. “Just make sure they comply with the
new building codes. I don’t want fancy boutiques with no fire exits or
plumbing that dumps directly into the street.”
“Of course, my lord,” she agreed quickly. “Sir Formalitee has been
most… thorough in his review of our compliance.”
Sir Formalitee puffed up with pride at this acknowledgment of his
regulatory authority. I swear the man got more joy from a properly filed
permit than most people got from sex.
I noticed several other nobles exchanging glances at this, not all of them
pleased. Lord Whatshisface, a portly demon with elaborate facial hair,
looked particularly disgruntled. He’d been one of the most resistant to the
changes over the past month, clinging to traditional noble privileges and
complaining about every innovation.
Magister Wiggles practically bounced to his feet next, the magical
patterns beneath his translucent skin swirling in excited patterns. “My lord!
The energy integration systems have exceeded all projections in our
preliminary tests! By combining void solar collection panels with our
natural shadow currents, we have achieved a three hundred forty-seven
percent increase in power generation efficiency!”
He proceeded to explain a complex system that, as far as I could tell,
was essentially magical solar and wind power combined with some kind of
arcane battery storage. The technical details went over my head, but the
basic concept seemed sound—and his enthusiasm was infectious.
“So we’re basically going green while still staying appropriately dark
and shadowy?” I asked. “Environmentally friendly evil overlord lair? I like
it.”
Magister Wiggles nodded enthusiastically. “Precisely, my lord!
Sustainable darkness! Renewable shadow energy! Eco-friendly arcane
power! The void manuals call this concept ‘carbon neutrality,’ though in our
case it might be more accurately termed ‘shadow neutrality’!”
“Implement it throughout the city,” I decided. “Nothing says
‘progressive dark realm’ like sustainable magical energy. Plus, I’m guessing
it’s cheaper than whatever we’re doing now, which seems to involve a lot of
burning things and hoping for the best.”
Magister Wiggles looked like he might weep with joy. “Thank you, my
lord! You shall not regret this visionary decision! I have already designed
special collection arrays that resemble traditional demonic architectural
elements while maximizing energy absorption!”
The discussions continued, with each stakeholder group contributing
ideas and raising concerns. Healer 47 advocated for neighborhood health
clinics integrated with the residential areas. Mistress Pokey presented plans
for urban gardens and green spaces that would serve both aesthetic and
practical purposes. Duke Splashypants proposed an innovative water
management system for the Murk Marshes that would both protect the
ecosystem and provide sustainable resources. General Smashington
outlined security considerations for each district, while Lady Shadowfax
suggested discreet surveillance measures to maintain order.
Throughout it all, I was struck by the genuine engagement of everyone
present. This wasn’t just a theoretical exercise to them—it was a blueprint
for a future they genuinely wanted to build. Even most of the nobles,
motivated primarily by self-interest, were contributing constructively to the
process.
There were exceptions, of course. Lord Whatshisface and a few others
of his faction remained mostly silent, their expressions ranging from
skeptical to openly hostile. When they did speak, it was to raise objections
about costs or traditions, thinly veiled attempts to slow the process.
“The treasury cannot possibly support such extravagant expenditures,”
Lord Whatshisface finally declared, his jowls quivering with indignation.
“These ‘void principles’ may sound appealing, but Iferona has survived for
millennia with our traditional building methods.”
“Survived is a generous term,” I replied coolly. “Half the city is literally
crumbling, the water is undrinkable without magical purification, and waste
disposal consists of ‘throw it somewhere and hope it disappears.’ I’d say
we’re overdue for an upgrade.”
“But the cost⁠—”
 “Is being addressed,” I cut him off. “The treasury is being replenished
through void commerce, and I’ve allocated specific funds for each phase of
reconstruction. Unless you’d prefer to contribute from your personal
fortune? No? Didn’t think so.”
“Void commerce,” he repeated, his tone skeptical. “Mysterious
transactions with unknown entities. Most concerning.”
I could feel Azrael tensing beside me, his temperature dropping several
degrees. The nobles who had been present during previous confrontations—
who had witnessed Azrael’s reaction to disrespect—quickly distanced
themselves from Lord Whatshisface, both physically and metaphorically.
“Would you care to inspect the treasury records personally, Lord
Whatshisface?” I asked, my voice deceptively pleasant. “I’m sure Lord
Taxman would be delighted to walk you through every transaction. It might
take several days… perhaps weeks… of your valuable time, but I wouldn’t
want to leave you with concerns. He’s been dying to show someone his new
color-coded filing system.”
Lord Whatshisface paled slightly, catching the implied threat. “That
won’t be necessary, my lord. I merely wished to exercise appropriate fiscal
caution.”
“Your concern is noted,” I said, making it clear the discussion was over.
“Filed right between ‘things I care about’ and ‘things that matter,’ which is a
very thin folder. Now, let’s move on to implementation logistics.”
The meeting continued for another hour, working out schedules,
resource allocation, and responsibility assignments. By the time we
concluded, the sun was setting, casting shadows through the hall’s high
windows.
“The planning phase is complete,” I announced, rising from my seat.
“Tomorrow, we accelerate the actual work. The next shipment of void
equipment will arrive at dawn, and I want the eastern district demolition
completed by the end of the week.”
A ripple of excitement ran through the room. This was really happening
—not just plans and models, but actual rebuilding.
“Don’t forget the dinner tonight,” I added. “Eight o’clock, grand dining
hall. It’s been on the calendar for two weeks, so I expect everyone to be
there. Consider it both a celebration of our progress and a chance to
continue these discussions in a more relaxed setting.”
 The formal dinner had been Azrael’s suggestion, surprisingly enough.
After watching me interact casually with citizens at the camp, he’d
proposed a more “appropriate” venue for showcasing the dark lord’s
magnificence while still allowing for the collaboration I valued. The castle
staff had been preparing for it ever since, determined to demonstrate that
they could adapt to the new Iferona as well as anyone.
As the council members filed out, still buzzing with excitement about
both the rebuilding plans and the evening’s festivities, I turned to Azrael.
“That went well,” I said. “Though I’m guessing Lord Whatshisface and
his cronies will need some additional… encouragement to get with the
program.”
“Indeed, my lord,” Azrael replied, his voice smooth but with an
undercurrent that sent a slight chill down my spine. “Perhaps a more private
discussion of their concerns would be beneficial.”
“Just don’t do anything that would ruin them permanently,” I said, only
half joking.
“Of course, my lord. I shall merely… clarify certain misconceptions
they may harbor.”
The gleam in his crimson eyes suggested these “clarifications” might be
memorable, if not entirely comfortable. I decided not to press for details.
“I should get ready for dinner,” I said, stretching until my back made a
concerning series of pops. “What am I wearing again?”
“The midnight-blue suit with silver threading, my lord,” Azrael replied.
“As discussed last week during your fitting.”
“Right, the one that made you do that thing with your eyebrow.” I
grinned, recalling his subtle but unmistakable reaction when I’d tried it on.
“I’m still not sure if that meant you liked it or thought I looked ridiculous.”
Something flickered in Azrael’s expression—too quick to identify but
definitely there. “The suit is… most becoming, my lord. It highlights your
enhanced features most effectively.”
Was it my imagination, or was there something beyond professional
assessment in his voice?
“I’ve taken the liberty of preparing your bath with the shadow essence
oils you prefer,” he continued. “If you’ll permit me to assist you?”
“Lead the way,” I said, resigning myself to another session of trying not
to embarrass myself while an impossibly attractive demon helped me bathe.
Just another day in the life of an accidental dark lord.
 Back in my chambers, I found the massive black marble tub filled with
steaming water that shimmered with oils that smelled like midnight air and
something uniquely Iferonian that I still couldn’t name. After over a month
of daily bathing rituals, I’d gotten used to the whole “butler helps you
bathe” thing—which probably said something disturbing about how quickly
humans can normalize literally anything.
Azrael moved with his usual silent grace as he prepared the bathing
implements. Seriously, for someone built like a marble statue, the man
moved like a ghost with excellent fashion sense.
“Allow me, my lord,” he said, crossing the room to assist me.
And here was the part that still made my brain short-circuit like an
overtaxed power strip. In theory, having an impossibly attractive
supernatural being undress you daily should eventually become routine. In
practice, my body had developed a Pavlovian response to Azrael’s
proximity that was getting harder to ignore—and harder to hide, if you
catch my drift.
His fingers worked efficiently at my buttons, each brief contact sending
little jolts of electricity through me that I desperately tried to attribute to
static or shadow magic or literally anything other than the obvious. Because
developing a massive crush on your demon butler was exactly the kind of
complication my new life as an accidental dark lord needed.
“So,” I said, desperately searching for conversation to distract from my
body’s increasingly obvious reaction to his proximity, “do you think Sir
Formalitee will actually explode from excitement before we break ground
on his precious Administrative District? The man practically vibrated
through the floor every time someone mentioned building codes.”
“A distinct possibility,” Azrael replied, his voice closer to my ear than
strictly necessary as he slid my shirt from my shoulders. “Though I suspect
his excitement would just make him temporarily vanish in a puff of
bureaucratic smoke rather than cause any lasting harm.”
His cool fingers brushed against my bare shoulders, and I suppressed a
shiver that had nothing to do with temperature. This was ridiculous. I was a
grown man, not some teenager getting hot and bothered over accidental
contact. Except apparently my body hadn’t gotten that memo, because
every casual touch from Azrael sent my pulse racing like I’d mainlined
espresso.
 Back on Earth, guys like Azrael—supernaturally gorgeous with
cheekbones that could cut glass—wouldn’t have given awkward, average-
looking me a second glance. I’d spent my college years crushing on
unattainable types like Professors Holloway and Sinclair from a safe
distance, never actually doing anything about it because rejection is only
fun if you’re a masochist, which I decidedly am not.
Yet here was Azrael, with his perfect face and his perfect hair and his
perfect everything, helping me undress like it was the most natural thing in
the world. The universe had a twisted sense of humor—giving me a hot
demon butler only after transforming me into someone who looked like the
cover model for Ethereal Lords Monthly.
Once I was undressed—a process that had somehow become both
routine and excruciatingly charged—Azrael held out his hand to steady me
as I stepped into the bath. His palm against mine felt cool and strong, and I
tried very hard not to think about those hands touching me in other
contexts, because that way lay madness and potentially very awkward
physical reactions.
I sank into the hot water with a groan that I immediately regretted
because it sounded way more pornographic than intended. “Sweet merciful
darkness, that feels good. If I fall asleep and drown, tell everyone I died
heroically fighting a dragon or something.”
“I would never permit such an undignified end, my lord,” Azrael
replied, and was that amusement in his voice? “Though I’m certain Mr.
Snuggles would be honored to feature in your fictional demise.”
As Azrael knelt beside the tub with a pitcher of water, I studied his
profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the elegant arch of his cheekbones, the
way his dark lashes framed those unsettling crimson eyes. It was like
someone had taken every “hot villain” trope from fantasy novels and
condensed them into one unfairly attractive package.
“May I, my lord?” he asked, holding up the pitcher.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak without my voice doing
something embarrassing like cracking or coming out an octave higher than
normal.
He poured warm water over my hair, one hand shielding my eyes with
surprising tenderness. When his fingers began working soap into my scalp,
I had to bite my lip to stifle a sound that would have been mortifying to
explain. His touch was somehow both precisely professional and
unbearably intimate, each circle of his fingertips sending waves of pleasure
down my spine.
This was a problem. A big problem. Because while I might have zero
actual experience with relationships—unless you count that one awkward
kiss behind the gym in tenth grade, which I don’t—I wasn’t an idiot. I knew
what attraction felt like. I’d just never expected to feel it quite this intensely,
or for someone who was technically my employee, or in a body that wasn’t
even originally mine.
The whole situation was a mess of ethical complications that would
make a philosophy professor’s head explode. Was I attracted to Azrael?
Definitely. Was he attracted to me? Sometimes I caught him looking at me
in ways that suggested yes, but he was also literally paid to serve me, so
there was a power dynamic that made everything weird and potentially
problematic.
“The castle tailors have outdone themselves with your attire for
tonight,” Azrael said, his voice pulling me from my moral quandary.
“They’ve created something rather… exceptional.”
“Let me guess—they wanted to cover me in spikes and skulls and
random bone accents, and you had to talk them down to something that
won’t make me look like the final boss in a gothic video game?”
A smile flickered across his face—a real one, not the polite butler
version. “Your assessment is remarkably accurate, my lord. Though they
preferred to call it ‘traditional demonic formal aesthetic.’”
“Same difference,” I muttered, trying to focus on fashion choices rather
than the way his fingers were working magic on my scalp.
When he guided me to lean back for rinsing, his hand cradled the back
of my head with surprising gentleness. I closed my eyes, focusing on the
sensation of his fingers combing through my hair, working out tangles with
meticulous care. It was weirdly intimate, this ritual we’d developed, and I
looked forward to it each day in ways that probably weren’t entirely
appropriate.
Once my hair was clean, Azrael handed me a washcloth and soap, our
fingers brushing in a contact that felt like a small electric shock. “Perhaps
you would prefer to complete the bathing yourself, my lord?”
“Thanks,” I managed, taking the cloth and waiting for him to turn away
before attending to the rest of my washing. Even after a month, there were
some lines we didn’t cross—though the boundaries seemed to be shifting in
ways I wasn’t entirely sure how to navigate.
When I emerged from the bath, he was waiting with a heated towel that
he wrapped around me, his hands lingering at my shoulders. Through the
fabric, I could feel the slight pressure of his fingers, the careful control in
his movements.
“The void products have enhanced your features, my lord,” he said, his
voice carefully neutral, his eyes anything but as they traced the contours of
my face. “Your natural luminescence has intensified.”
I caught my reflection in the mirror and had to admit he was right. My
silver-white hair seemed to glow with inner light, and my skin had taken on
an almost pearlescent quality. Even my eyes seemed more vibrant, the blue
deeper and more intense. It was like looking at a photoshopped version of
myself—still me, but with all the settings cranked up to eleven.
“Good thing I’m not trying to go incognito,” I joked, suddenly self-
conscious under his intense gaze. “I’d make a terrible spy glowing like a
fantasy-novel protagonist. ‘No, no, I’m just a regular guy with naturally
luminescent skin and hair that reflects moonlight. Nothing suspicious here,
Officer.’”
The ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Indeed, my lord. Subtlety has
never been your defining characteristic.”
The suit waiting on the bed was nothing short of magnificent—
midnight-blue fabric that seemed to absorb and reflect light simultaneously,
with silver threading that caught the light like captured moonbeams. It was
the perfect fusion of Earth formal wear and demonic aesthetics, structured
like a modern tuxedo but with subtle elements that evoked traditional
Iferonian formal attire.
“Holy crap,” I said, genuinely impressed. “That’s… actually gorgeous.
No spikes? No skulls? No random bone accents that poke me in
uncomfortable places? Did you have to threaten the tailors with
dismemberment to achieve this level of restraint?”
“I may have provided some guidance regarding your preferences,”
Azrael replied, a hint of pride in his voice. “The royal tailors were initially
quite… enthusiastic about traditional elements.”
“By which you mean they wanted me looking like I was about to front a
goth metal band?”
 “Their initial design included shoulder pauldrons made from actual
shoulder blades,” he confirmed. “And a cape lined with what they described
as ‘ceremonial bone dust.’”
“Gross. And impractical. How do you even dry clean bone dust?” I
shuddered. “Thank you for saving me from walking around like a Hot Topic
exploded on me.”
As he helped me dress, I became acutely aware of how this ritual, too,
had evolved. What had started as necessary assistance with complicated
demonic fashion had developed into something that felt almost… intimate.
Each layer seemed to involve more contact than strictly necessary—his
fingers adjusting my collar, smoothing the fabric across my shoulders,
lingering at my wrists as he secured the cuff links.
The suit fit perfectly, molding to my body like it had been painted on.
The fabric felt impossibly light yet substantial, with a subtle texture that
invited touch. I caught myself wondering if Azrael found it as touchable as I
did, then immediately tried to shut down that train of thought before it
could leave the station and head for destinations unknown.
When he knelt to adjust the hem of my trousers, I fixed my gaze firmly
on the ceiling, mentally reciting the most boring passages from my old
business textbooks to distract myself from his proximity. Supply chain
management. Quarterly fiscal reporting. Anything but the fact that Azrael
was literally on his knees in front of me, his face inches from my⁠—
“The tailors incorporated an adjustable hem,” he explained, his voice
sounding slightly strained. “For maximum comfort during extended formal
occasions.”
“That’s… thoughtful,” I managed, my voice higher than usual. “Very
practical. A-plus. Gold star for the demonic tailors.”
When he rose, he was standing close enough that I could count his
eyelashes if I’d been so inclined. Which I wasn’t. Definitely wasn’t noticing
how unfairly long and thick they were or how they framed those crimson
eyes that seemed to be getting darker by the second.
The final touch was a silver tie pin with a small sapphire that matched
my eyes exactly. As Azrael affixed it to my tie, his fingers brushed against
my chest. Even through layers of fabric, the contact felt like a brand,
sending heat racing through me that pooled in places that were becoming
increasingly difficult to ignore.
“Perfect,” he murmured, stepping back to survey his work.
 I turned to face the mirror, partly to check my appearance and partly to
put some distance between us before my body betrayed me completely. The
person staring back at me barely seemed real—all glowing skin and silver-
white hair and eyes so blue they looked almost supernatural. The suit
completed the transformation, making me look like I’d stepped out of some
high-fantasy novel about beautiful immortal beings.
It was still jarring, seeing this face and body instead of my own. Back
on Earth, I’d been aggressively average—not ugly but definitely not the
kind of guy who turned heads when he walked into a room. Now I looked
like I could be on the cover of Supernatural GQ: The Ethereal Edition.
“I look…” I trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence.
“Magnificent,” Azrael supplied, his voice rougher than usual. “Truly
befitting the Dark Lord of Iferona.”
Our eyes met in the mirror, and something electric passed between us.
The air felt suddenly thick, charged with something dangerous and
intoxicating. His gaze was so intense it almost felt physical, like he was
touching me without moving a muscle.
For a heartbeat, I thought he might close the distance between us. His
body seemed to sway infinitesimally forward, his reflection in the mirror
showing a flash of something raw and hungry in his eyes that made my
breath catch.
The clock chimed somewhere in the castle, the sound shattering the
moment like glass. Azrael stepped back, his perfect composure reasserting
itself with visible effort.
“The guests will be arriving,” he said, his voice still carrying that rough
edge that did weird things to my insides. “Shall we proceed to the dining
hall?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Whatever was developing
between us would have to wait. Right now, I had a dinner to host and a
kingdom to rebuild—though, suddenly neither seemed as interesting as the
mystery of what might have happened if that clock hadn’t chimed.
As we walked through the corridors toward the dining hall, I tried to get
my head back in the game. I was about to host my first formal dinner as the
Dark Lord of Iferona, with nobles and citizens and department heads all
watching my every move. I needed to focus on making a good impression,
on advancing my plans for rebuilding the city, on all the important dark lord
business that definitely did not include fantasizing about my demon butler.
 But a small, persistent part of my brain kept circling back to the look in
Azrael’s eyes when he’d called me “magnificent.” It wasn’t the polite
admiration of a servant for his master. It was something else entirely—
something that made me wonder if maybe, just maybe, the attraction I’d
been fighting wasn’t as one-sided as I’d assumed.
And that was a complication I definitely wasn’t prepared to deal with
tonight. Or possibly ever.

OceanofPDF.com
 21

Lucien/Beau

D
ownstairs, the grand dining hall had been transformed. Historically
used for grim state banquets where the entertainment often involved
torture, the space now gleamed with elegant sophistication. Crystal
chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting warm light over a long
table set with fine china, silver, and crystal. Fresh flowers—a rarity in
Iferona—adorned the center of the table, their delicate scent a pleasant
contrast to the realm’s usual sulfurous undertones.
The castle staff had undergone a transformation as well over the past
month. Gone were the ragged, terrified servants of the old regime, replaced
by demons in crisp uniforms clearly inspired by Earth formal service. The
butlers wore tailcoats with white gloves, while the serving staff were
dressed in sleek black-and-white ensembles. Even the chefs, visible through
the open doors to the kitchen, sported traditional white coats and tall hats.
“This is… impressive,” I told Azrael as I surveyed the room, trying
desperately to focus on the décor rather than the lingering sensation of his
fingers against my chest from earlier. My skin still tingled where he’d
touched me, like he’d left some invisible mark that only I could feel. “The
staff has really embraced the whole ‘five-star service’ concept.”
“They have been studying the void hospitality manuals with remarkable
dedication, my lord,” Azrael replied, standing close enough that I could feel
the coolness radiating from him. Had he always stood this close, or was this
new since our almost-moment upstairs? Either way, it was making it hard to
concentrate on anything except the memory of how he’d looked at me in the
mirror, that flash of hunger in his eyes before the clock interrupted. “Head
Chef 001 Ramsay has personally overseen twenty-seven practice dinners to
perfect tonight’s menu.”
“Twenty-seven? Who ate all that food?”
“The staff, my lord. They have developed quite sophisticated palates
over the past month. Head Chef 001 Ramsay now requires them to provide
detailed critique of each dish before it is approved for service.”
I laughed at the image of terrified demon servants being forced to give
feedback on gourmet cuisine. “From trembling in fear to food critics in a
month. That’s what I call personal growth.”
“Indeed, my lord. Though I am concerned about the ice sculptures.
Certain artistic liberties have been taken that may not be entirely…
appropriate.”
I followed his gaze to the elaborate ice carving at the center of the
dessert table and nearly choked on my own spit. There, in all its frozen
glory, stood what could only be described as a demon bodybuilder mid-flex,
sporting muscles that would make bodybuilders weep with envy and—most
notably—an impressively proportioned package on full display.
“Holy crap, is that anatomically correct?” I asked, tilting my head for a
better view. “Because if so, I think someone’s been taking artistic license
with demon proportions. That’s not an ice sculpture; it’s a frigid fertility
god. Did the sculptor use you as a model or something?”
Azrael’s expression remained perfectly composed, though I swear I saw
the faintest hint of color touch his pale cheeks. “An… enthusiastic
interpretation of classical demonic statuary, my lord. I shall have it
modified before the guests arrive.”
“No, leave it.” I grinned. “It’ll be a conversation starter. Besides, I want
to see Lord Whatshisface’s face when he realizes he’s seated directly across
from it. The man’s going to spend the entire meal trying not to make eye
contact with a frosty demon dong.”
A ghost of a smile touched Azrael’s lips. “As you wish, my lord.”
The first guests to arrive were my department heads, and I had to do a
double take at their transformations. Magister Wiggles floated in wearing
robes that seemed alive, shifting colors in perfect harmony with the magical
patterns swirling beneath his translucent skin. The effect was hypnotic, like
watching the world’s most elegant lava lamp.
 Lady Shadowfax had solidified her usually misty form into something
distinctly feminine, wrapped in what appeared to be a gown made from
actual starlight. With each step, constellations rippled across the fabric,
creating the illusion that she was wearing the night sky itself.
General Smashington had abandoned his usual battle armor for what I
could only describe as demon formal wear—a structured outfit that
accommodated his massive arms while still managing to look elegant rather
than ridiculous. His ceremonial weapons had been replaced with elaborate
jeweled armbands that glinted menacingly in the chandelier light.
Duke Splashypants entered with an impressive flourish, his webbed
hands adorned with luminescent pearl rings. He wore flowing robes in
shades of deep blue and green that rippled like water with his every
movement, creating the illusion he was perpetually submerged. His formal
title medallion—”Master of the Moist Dominion”—gleamed prominently at
his throat as he announced himself with characteristic gurgling dignity.
Sir Formalitee arrived precisely on time, his paperlike skin rustling
softly as he moved. He wore what appeared to be an administrative uniform
elevated to formal wear, with each document-thin layer meticulously
arranged and stamped with official seals. He carried a small clipboard even
now, occasionally making notes as he observed the proceedings with
bureaucratic intensity.
Lord Taxman had exchanged his usual practical attire for something that
could only be described as “ostentatiously austere”—a perfectly tailored
suit in deepest black, adorned with tiny golden coins that served as buttons
and cuff links. His spectacles gleamed in the chandelier light as he mentally
calculated the value of everything in the room, his fingers twitching slightly
as if working an invisible abacus.
Mistress Pokey made perhaps the most dramatic entrance, her bark-like
skin now polished to a high sheen and adorned with living flowers that
bloomed and changed colors with her mood. Her formal attire incorporated
actual living plants that twisted elegantly around her form, with tiny
luminescent fruits hanging like jewels from vines that coiled around her
arms. The effect was both beautiful and slightly unsettling, as the plants
seemed to respond to her emotions, stretching toward those she favored and
subtly recoiling from those she didn’t.
Healer 47 arrived with quiet dignity, her mothlike features enhanced by
a gossamer gown that complemented her delicate wings. She had adorned
her fuzzy body with tiny glowing crystals that resembled stars against her
pale-gray gown. Her compound eyes reflected the chandelier light in
rainbow patterns, while her antennae—normally constantly moving to sense
illness—were adorned with small silver bells that made gentle chiming
sounds as she moved. Despite the formal setting, the multiple pockets in her
elegant robes still bulged slightly with medical supplies she couldn’t bear to
leave behind.
The noble representatives arrived next, and the fashion divide couldn’t
have been more obvious if they’d worn team jerseys. The progressive
faction, led by Lady Insertnamehere, had embraced Earth-inspired styles
with enthusiasm. She wore a gown that combined traditional Iferona
draping with modern structuring, topped with a delicate tiara that seemed to
float above her head rather than rest on it.
Baron Figureitoutlater sported something resembling a tuxedo, though
with clever alterations to accommodate his nonhuman features. By contrast,
Lord Whatshisface and his cronies had gone full medieval demon court—
elaborate robes with excessive ornamentation, high collars that looked both
uncomfortable and pretentious, and enough jewels to sink a small yacht.
They looked like they were attending a Renaissance Faire with an unlimited
budget and questionable taste.
The citizen representatives entered last, looking like kids dressed up for
their first prom. Clipboard88 kept tugging at his collar as if it might
suddenly strangle him, while Filekeeper38 smoothed her skirt
approximately every second, clearly terrified it might spontaneously
combust.
“You both look great,” I assured them, greeting them personally. “And
don’t worry—this dinner is supposed to be fun, not an execution. Though
with some of these nobles, the jury’s still out.” Turning my attention to the
guests at large, I said, “Please, everyone, find your places. The seating
arrangement is intentionally mixed—I want you all to get to know each
other beyond your official capacities. Think of it as demonic speed dating,
except for city planning instead of romance. Though if anyone does fall in
love over discussions of sewage systems, I’ll happily officiate the
wedding.”
This earned a few nervous laughs and more than a few confused looks.
The traditional nobles looked particularly horrified at the seating
arrangement, with Lord Whatshisface turning an interesting shade of purple
when he realized he was sandwiched between Healer 47 and Clipboard88,
with a direct view of Ice Sculpture Adonis and his frozen assets.
I took my seat at the head of the table, immediately aware of Azrael
taking his position behind me. The first course arrived promptly—a delicate
soup served in what appeared to be bowls made from some kind of
iridescent shell.
As I lifted my spoon, Azrael leaned in close—unnecessarily close—to
adjust my napkin. His breath tickled my ear as he whispered, “Head Chef
001 Ramsay recommends a small sip first, my lord. The flavor can be…
intense.”
I caught a hint of his scent—something like cedar and night air with an
undertone I couldn’t quite identify but found weirdly appealing. When he
straightened, his hand brushed against my shoulder, lingering just a fraction
too long to be accidental. My skin tingled at the contact like I’d stuck my
finger in an electrical socket, except this was the kind of electrocution I
might actually volunteer for.
“What you’re all enjoying,” I said to the table, trying to ignore the way
my body was suddenly operating at the temperature of a nuclear reactor
core, “is a fusion of traditional Iferona shadow broth with void spices.
Basically, it’s demon soup with void seasoning—all the darkness you love,
now with actual flavor.”
The reaction around the table was immediate and entertaining. Lady
Insertnamehere’s eyes widened in delight. “This is remarkable! The familiar
essence of shadow broth, but with complexity I’ve never experienced
before!”
Magister Wiggles practically vibrated with excitement, the magical
patterns beneath his skin swirling so fast they blurred. “The void spices
appear to enhance the natural magical properties of our ingredients! I can
feel my arcane reserves expanding with each spoonful!”
Even Lord Whatshisface couldn’t maintain his disdainful expression
after the first taste. His spoon returned to his bowl with increasing speed,
though he tried to look dignified while practically inhaling the soup. It was
like watching someone trying to maintain their composure while secretly
housing an entire pizza—a skill I’d perfected during college all-nighters.
“That’s something we’ve been noticing over the past month.” I nodded,
watching the reactions with amusement. “Void products seem to have
enhancement effects on demon physiology. Have any of you noticed
changes in yourselves?”
This launched an animated discussion around the table. Mistress Pokey
pushed back her sleeve to show how her bark-like skin now had a
luminescent quality, with tiny flower buds sprouting along her forearms. “I
find myself more connected to plant life than ever before,” she explained.
“And these buds—they respond to my emotions!”
As if to demonstrate, one of the buds suddenly bloomed into a tiny,
perfect flower when she smiled.
General Smashington flexed one of his arms, causing the muscles to
ripple impressively. “My strength has doubled,” he rumbled. “Yesterday I
lifted a boulder that would have challenged me even in my prime.”
“My magical perception has expanded into spectrums I never knew
existed,” Magister Wiggles added, his voice awed. “I can see the arcane
patterns in everything now—even in this soup!” He gestured excitedly at
his bowl, where the liquid did seem to be swirling in strangely beautiful
patterns.
Lady Shadowfax, typically the most reserved of my department heads,
surprised me by actually demonstrating her enhancement. She raised one
elegant hand and it dissolved into shadow, reformed as a perfect crystal
replica of itself, then returned to normal. “I can shift between states at will
now,” she said softly. “Solid, shadow, or elemental form.”
“So basically Void food is like demon steroids,” I summarized, reaching
for my wineglass. “All the enhancement, none of the shrunken… parts.” I
glanced meaningfully at the ice sculpture, earning a few shocked laughs
from the more progressive guests.
As I raised my glass, Azrael materialized at my side to refill it, though it
was still half-full. His fingers brushed against mine as he steadied the glass,
sending an unexpected jolt up my arm. It was like someone had replaced
my blood with liquid lightning and then made me touch a live wire—
electrifying, alarming, and weirdly addictive all at once.
When I glanced up at him, his eyes were fixed on my lips as I took a
sip, his gaze so intense it made me almost choke on the wine. The crimson
of his irises had darkened to the color of old blood, pupils dilated in a way
that had nothing to do with the dimmed lighting. If looks could undress
people, I’d have been stark naked and probably spontaneously combusting
on the spot.
 I licked a drop from my lower lip without thinking, a casual gesture that
I immediately regretted when Azrael’s hand tightened visibly on the wine
bottle, his knuckles whitening with strain. The temperature around us
dropped several degrees, though no one else seemed to notice. Great, now I
was causing localized weather events with my tongue. That was definitely
not covered in the So You’re a Dark Lord Now handbook.
“Is the vintage not to your liking, my lord?” he asked, his voice pitched
low enough that only I could hear it, rough-edged in a way that sent heat
pooling low in my abdomen.
“It’s perfect,” I managed, suddenly finding it difficult to form coherent
thoughts with him standing so close, his scent enveloping me like an
invisible embrace. My brain had apparently decided to take an unscheduled
vacation, leaving behind only the basic functions needed to breathe and
embarrass myself.
The second course arrived—a seafood dish featuring what the chef
called “void scallops” with a delicate sauce. Azrael personally arranged my
plate, leaning in so close I could feel the coolness radiating from his body.
His chest nearly pressed against my back as he adjusted the placement of
each element with meticulous precision, his movements deliberate and
almost possessive. For a moment I wondered if the scallops really needed
that much rearranging, or if this was just an elaborate excuse to hover
around me like the world’s most attractive helicopter parent.
“Only I serve Lord Lucien directly,” he informed a younger demon who
attempted to pour water into my glass, his voice silky but with an
unmistakable edge that sent the server scurrying away. The poor kid
practically teleported across the room to escape Azrael’s death glare. Note
to self: demonic butlers have serious territorial issues.
As he withdrew, his breath ghosted against the nape of my neck, raising
goosebumps down my spine. Our eyes met briefly, and the naked want I
saw there before he carefully masked it made my heart stutter in my chest.
Whatever had almost happened upstairs was clearly still very much on his
mind—as it was on mine, despite my best efforts to focus on the dinner. My
body had apparently decided that responding to Azrael’s proximity was now
its primary function, with trivial matters like “hosting a diplomatic dinner”
relegated to the back burner.
Throughout the meal, I became increasingly aware of Azrael’s constant
presence behind me—the slight shift in temperature when he moved closer,
the way other servants gave my chair a wide berth, the prickling sensation
at the back of my neck that told me I was being watched with unwavering
attention. It was like having a sixth sense that only detected hot, possibly
homicidal demon butlers. Probably not a marketable superpower, but
definitely an interesting party trick.
Every time I needed something, his hand was there before I could ask,
our fingers brushing in contacts that sent sparks racing up my arm. At this
rate, I’d either develop an immunity to his touch or spontaneously combust
before dessert. Neither option seemed particularly conducive to successful
diplomacy.
The third course brought a salad of local greens enhanced with void
vegetables, followed by a palate-cleansing sorbet that caused Lady
Insertnamehere to actually moan out loud, then look mortified at her own
reaction.
“Don’t worry,” I assured her with a grin. “That’s the appropriate
response to good sorbet. If it doesn’t make you make inappropriate noises,
it’s not doing its job.”
By the time the main course arrived—perfectly cooked wagyu beef for
those who consumed meat, and an elaborate vegetable creation for those
who didn’t—the atmosphere had relaxed considerably. Even the citizen
representatives were contributing to the conversation, their initial
nervousness forgotten as they shared their experiences and ideas.
Clipboard88 was enthusiastically describing the new construction
techniques they’d developed using void equipment. “The excavators can
clear in one day what would have taken a hundred demons a week!” he
explained, gesturing so excitedly he nearly knocked over his wineglass.
Azrael’s hand shot out with inhuman speed, catching the glass before it
could spill. “Perhaps more focus on eating, less on excavating,” he
suggested, his tone pleasant but his eyes narrowed slightly.
“Of course, Lord Azrael.” Clipboard88 gulped, shrinking in his seat.
“It’s fine,” I said quickly. “I’d rather have enthusiasm than perfect table
manners any day. God knows mine are questionable at best. Just yesterday I
found out I’ve been using the fish fork wrong my entire life. Apparently, it’s
not for scratching hard-to-reach places on your back.”
This earned genuine laughter from around the table, easing the tension
Azrael had created. Even Clipboard88 relaxed slightly, though he was
noticeably more careful with his gestures afterward.
 Only Lord Whatshisface and his faction remained aloof, though they
couldn’t hide their appreciation for the food. I caught them exchanging
glances throughout the meal, their expressions calculating. Whatever they
were planning, it wasn’t alignment with the new vision for Iferona.
As the dessert course was served—an architectural marvel of chocolate
and fruit that drew actual applause from the guests—Azrael leaned down to
place mine in front of me. His chest pressed briefly against my back as he
reached around, and I could have sworn I felt him inhale deeply, as if
catching my scent. The moment was so brief I might have imagined it, but
the tingle that ran down my spine was definitely real.
When I shifted in my chair, the silver threading in my suit catching the
light, I felt rather than saw Azrael’s attention fix on me with laser focus.
When I reached for my wineglass, his hand was there instantly, steadying it
though it was in no danger of tipping. His fingers lingered against mine for
a heartbeat too long, cool against my suddenly warm skin.
It was… disconcerting. And oddly exhilarating. Like being the sole
focus of a predator that couldn’t decide whether to devour you or worship
you.
The dinner concluded with coffee and liqueurs, the conversation
flowing as freely as the drinks. I mingled among the guests, engaging with
each group and observing their interactions. Azrael shadowed my
movements, maintaining a distance that was professionally appropriate but
somehow still felt intimately close. Whenever another guest stood too near
to me, he would materialize at my side, his presence causing them to
unconsciously step back.
The progressive nobles were eagerly discussing fashion and commercial
opportunities with the citizen representatives. Baron Figureitoutlater was
showing Filekeeper38 sketches for a boutique he hoped to open, while Lady
Insertnamehere was deep in conversation with Mistress Pokey about
incorporating living plants into clothing designs.
Lord Whatshisface and his faction had clustered together at one end of
the room, looking like they were plotting the overthrow of a particularly
progressive kindergarten teacher. Their hushed conversations screeched to a
halt when I approached, replaced with smiles so fake they’d make a plastic
surgeon weep with envy.
“So, Lord Whatshisface,” I said, deliberately emphasizing his ridiculous
placeholder name. “Enjoying the food your ancestors would have
condemned as heretical?”
He straightened his already rigid spine, looking like he’d swallowed a
particularly disagreeable broomstick. “The meal was… unusual, my lord.
Though perhaps a bit too innovative for traditional palates.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of the point,” I replied, swirling my wine.
“Innovation. Progress. All those terrifying concepts that make old money
clutch their pearls and hide behind their antiquated furniture.”
His eye twitched—just a tiny spasm, but in the world of barely
contained noble rage, it was practically a temper tantrum. “Some traditions
are worth preserving, my lord,” he managed, his tone walking a tightrope
between disagreement and the self-preservation instinct that reminded him I
could have him turned into a decorative fountain ornament with a snap of
my fingers.
I gave him my best dark lord smile—the one I’d been practicing in the
mirror that fell somewhere between “charming psychopath” and “your
worst nightmare but make it sexy.”
“Here’s the thing about traditions, Whatshisface. The good ones survive
on their own merits. The bad ones need to be propped up by people who
benefit from them at everyone else’s expense.” I took a deliberately casual
sip of wine. “Guess which category ‘letting the peasants drink sewer water
while nobles hoard clean springs’ falls into?”
His companions shifted uncomfortably, suddenly finding the ceiling
architecture fascinating. Lord Whatshisface’s face had developed an
interesting purple undertone, like a bruise contemplating its life choices.
“The noble houses have maintained the realm’s stability for millennia,”
he said, his voice strained with the effort of not saying what he actually
thought. “Change for its own sake can be… destabilizing.”
The temperature around us plummeted so suddenly I could see my
breath. Azrael hadn’t visibly moved, but he was suddenly there, his
presence expanding to fill the space like a storm cloud. Lord Whatshisface
and his companions took an involuntary step back, their expressions
shifting from veiled contempt to the universal look of someone who just
realized they’re one wrong word away from becoming an object lesson.
“Let me clarify something for you,” I said, my voice friendly in a way
that made sweat break out on Whatshisface’s forehead. “I’m not asking for
your approval. I’m not soliciting your opinion. I’m not forming a committee
where you get a vote. I’m the Dark Lord of Iferona, and I’ve decided your
traditional way of doing things is garbage wrapped in fancy packaging.”
I leaned in slightly, enjoying the way he tried not to flinch. “The only
reason you’re still standing here with all your original parts is because I’m
giving you the opportunity to be part of the solution instead of remaining
part of the problem. Azrael thought I should just start fresh with nobles who
haven’t spent centuries perfecting the art of exploitation, but I’m an
optimist.”
Lord Whatshisface had gone from purple to a sickly gray, his eyes
darting between me and Azrael, who was smiling in a way that suggested he
was mentally measuring the noble for a coffin.
“I… we… of course, my lord,” he stammered. “We are honored to serve
your vision for Iferona.”
“Fantastic!” I clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make him
stagger. “Glad we had this chat. Try the chocolate fountain—it’s to die for.
Not literally, of course, but with Azrael standing right here, I probably
should clarify.”
As we moved away, Azrael remained unnervingly close, the back of his
hand occasionally brushing against mine as we walked. “They will
require… additional persuasion, my lord,” he murmured, his voice low
enough that only I could hear. The words slid like silk over steel, promising
something both elegant and dangerous.
“I noticed,” I replied equally quietly. “Keep an eye on them. If they
move beyond grumbling to actual obstruction, feel free to get creative. Just
try to keep the screaming to a minimum—the acoustics in this place are
ridiculous, and I need my beauty sleep.”
“Of course, my lord.” There was a subtle satisfaction in his tone that
suggested he was looking forward to whatever “persuasion” might entail.
His eyes gleamed with something that sent a shiver down my spine—not
entirely from fear.
The evening wrapped up with everyone except Lord Whatshisface and
his cronies looking like they’d just had the time of their demonic lives.
Mission accomplished—alliances strengthened, enemies identified, and not
a single person disemboweled during dinner. I was calling that a win.
As the last guests cleared out, I found myself alone with Azrael in the
grand dining hall, watching staff members whisk away plates with the silent
efficiency of ninjas in formal wear.
 “Well, that was fun,” I said, yanking at my tie like it was personally
offending me. “Though I think we’ve officially identified our problem
children. Lord Whatshisface and friends are going to be a pain in my
perfectly sculpted dark lord ass.”
“Their resistance could impede our progress,” Azrael agreed, his eyes
tracking the movement of my fingers on my tie like a cat watching a
particularly fascinating string.
“Keep tabs on them,” I said, finally freeing myself from the silken
noose. “I want to know who they’re meeting with, what they’re planning,
and whether they’ve graduated from bitching to actual sabotage.”
“I shall attend to it personally,” Azrael promised, something dark and
hungry flashing in his eyes that made me think Lord Whatshisface might
want to update his will.
As I turned to leave, Azrael stepped behind me to help with my jacket.
His hands slid over my shoulders, lingering way longer than the simple task
required, his fingers trailing down my arms like he was memorizing the
contours. When I turned to face him, we were suddenly standing close
enough that I could see little flecks of darker red in his eyes, like blood
droplets suspended in crystal.
“You knocked it out of the park with dinner,” I said, suddenly super
aware of how little space existed between us. Every inch of my skin felt like
it was on fire, my body practically humming with awareness. If sexual
tension were visible, we’d be standing in the middle of a freaking lightning
storm. “The whole evening was perfect. Five stars, would recommend to
other accidental dark lords.”
“I live to serve you,” he replied, his voice dropping to a register so low I
felt it in my chest more than heard it. “Your happiness is my only concern.”
There was something in his tone I’d never heard before—or maybe I’d
just never noticed it. His eyes held mine a beat too long, something
flickering in those crimson depths that definitely wasn’t just butler
devotion. It was pure, undiluted lust, barely contained behind that perfect
facade. The man wasn’t just undressing me with his eyes—he was bending
me over the nearest surface and doing things that would make a porn
director blush.
My mouth went dry and other parts of me decidedly didn’t. Part of me
—a growing, increasingly hard-to-ignore part—wanted him to just close
that gap between us, to press me against the nearest wall and ravage me
until I forgot my own name. I’d spent years fantasizing about guys like my
professors who wouldn’t give average, awkward me a second glance, and
now here was Azrael looking at me like he wanted to devour me whole and
come back for seconds.
The size difference between us only made it more fucking hot—he was
a good head taller, broader, stronger. Even with all my dark lord powers,
there was something undeniably arousing about the thought of those
powerful hands pinning me down, manhandling me however he wanted.
The mental image of being thrown over his shoulder or bent over and
claimed sent heat straight to my groin, making me grateful for the generous
cut of my formal trousers.
“Well, mission accomplished on the happiness front,” I said, stepping
back before I did something stupid like drop to my knees and find out if
demons tasted as good as they looked. “But I’m also dead on my feet. Turns
out intimidating nobles and planning infrastructure is exhausting work.”
“Shall I prepare your bath?” The question sounded innocent enough, but
something in the way he said “bath” made it sound like he was offering to
strip me naked and lick water droplets off every inch of my body. Which—
let’s be honest—was a mental image that was going to fuel my late-night
fantasies for the foreseeable future.
“That would be awesome, thanks.” I stifled a yawn that was only partly
fake. “And maybe find me something more comfortable to sleep in? These
void pajamas are nice, but it’s been weirdly hot at night lately.”
Something flashed in Azrael’s eyes at that—a quick spark of what
looked suspiciously like anticipation. His gaze swept over me in a way that
made me feel like I was already naked and spread out for his enjoyment. “I
shall arrange suitable attire,” he promised, bowing slightly before leading
the way toward my chambers.
As we walked through the quiet corridors, I couldn’t help noticing
things I’d somehow missed before—the fluid grace of his movements, the
subtle cedar-and-midnight scent that seemed to surround him, the way his
hand would occasionally brush against mine in a way that felt about as
accidental as a tax audit. Each brief contact sent jolts of electricity straight
to my cock, building a tension that was becoming painfully hard to ignore
with every step.
Something was definitely changing between us, some weird tension that
crackled in the air like static electricity before a storm. It was confusing,
exciting, and mildly terrifying all at once. I’d never been the object of such
intense focus before—back on Earth, I was the awkward guy who jerked off
thinking about hot professors I’d never have a chance with, not someone
who inspired this kind of barely restrained desire.
I wondered what would happen if I just stopped walking, turned around,
and closed the distance between us. Would he maintain that perfect butler
composure, or would it finally crack? The thought of being the one to make
Azrael lose control was both terrifying and possibly the hottest thing I’d
ever contemplated. Would he bend me over right here in the hallway? Pin
me against the wall? Fuck me until I couldn’t remember my own name?
Building a new city from scratch might actually be the easiest challenge
on my plate, compared to figuring out whatever the hell was happening
between me and my devoted, dangerous, and increasingly distracting
demon butler. At least sewage systems didn’t make me want to drop to my
knees and beg to be used.
But that was tomorrow’s problem. For now, I’d focus on more
immediate concerns—like not tripping over my own feet while being
hyperaware of Azrael’s presence beside me, and whether the “suitable
attire” he was arranging would involve actual clothing or just creative use
of a bath towel. Given the heat in his gaze, I was betting on the latter, and I
surprised myself by being okay with that possibility. Hell, who was I
kidding? The thought of being naked and wet with Azrael’s hands all over
me was making it difficult to walk normally.
I’d never thought I’d be excited about sewage systems, but hey—
character development comes in strange forms when you’re accidentally the
dark lord of a demon realm with a hot demon butler who looks at you like
he wants to bend you over the nearest surface and fuck you senseless.

OceanofPDF.com
 22

Lucien/Beau

T
he walk back to my chambers felt like the longest journey of my life.
Every step was an exercise in self-control, trying not to fixate on
Azrael’s proximity or the way his hand would occasionally brush
against mine in a way that sent electricity shooting up my arm like I’d stuck
my finger in a socket while standing in a puddle. The corridors seemed
endless, each turn revealing another stretch that kept me trapped in this
exquisite torture of being so close to him without actually touching.
By the time we reached my chambers, I was a mess of contradictory
impulses—wanting to run away, wanting to grab him, wanting to pretend
nothing was happening, wanting to demand answers about what exactly was
happening between us. Instead, I stood there like an idiot while Azrael
opened the door with that perfect fluid grace that made even the simplest
actions look like choreographed art. The man didn’t just move; he flowed,
like darkness given form and really good posture.
“I shall prepare your bath, my lord,” Azrael said, his voice dropping to
that lower register that did funny things to my insides. “Would you prefer
the jasmine or sandalwood salts this evening?”
“Surprise me,” I managed, yanking at my tie like it was personally
offending me. “As long as it doesn’t smell like actual sulfur or something
that died in a bog, I’m not picky.”
He inclined his head with that ghost of a smile that made my heart do
gymnastics routines it definitely hadn’t qualified for, then disappeared into
the bathroom. The sound of running water filled the silence, along with the
faint scent of something woodsy and exotic that made me think of midnight
forests and secret rendezvous. Not that I’d ever had a secret rendezvous.
My dating history was about as exciting as watching paint dry in slow
motion.
I collapsed into a nearby chair and attempted to get my brain
functioning again. Which was like trying to restart a computer by hitting it
repeatedly—technically possible but highly inefficient.
The bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam that
curled around Azrael’s tall figure like he was making a dramatic entrance in
a music video. He’d removed his tailcoat and rolled up his sleeves,
revealing forearms corded with lean muscle that made my mouth go dry
faster than a desert at high noon. Why were forearms sexy? Who decided
that? I wanted to file a complaint with the Department of Anatomical
Attractions for making such a random body part so distracting.
“Your bath is ready, my lord,” he announced, and somehow even that
mundane statement sounded like an invitation to something that would
make a romance novelist blush. His voice had this way of wrapping around
ordinary words and making them sound like they were wearing lingerie.
I nodded, not trusting my voice to produce anything more sophisticated
than a squeak, and moved past him into the bathroom. The massive sunken
tub was filled with steaming water, the surface scattered with what looked
like black rose petals. Candles floated in glass bowls around the edges,
casting the room in warm, flickering light that danced across the obsidian
walls.
“It’s, uh, very atmospheric,” I said, gesturing vaguely at the setup.
“Were you going for ‘romantic spa’ or ‘elegant sacrifice’? Because if you’re
planning to harvest my organs, I’d appreciate a heads-up so I can at least
finish my drink first.”
A smile touched Azrael’s lips, a real one this time, brief but devastating
in its effect on my already compromised cardiac function. “The black roses
aid in muscle relaxation, my lord. I noticed you were tense during dinner.”
Yeah, because you kept looking at me like I was the main course, side
dish, and dessert all rolled into one. “Right. Tense. That’s one word for it.
Another might be ‘wound tighter than a spring in a jack-in-the-box that’s
been cranked for three hours straight.’”
I stood there awkwardly, suddenly very aware that the next step
involved getting naked. Tonight, with the air between us practically
crackling with enough electricity to power a small city, the prospect of his
fingers working at my clothes seemed dangerous in a way that had nothing
to do with physical harm.
Before I could decide whether to dismiss him or let him stay, Azrael
stepped forward and began undoing my buttons. My breath caught in my
throat as his cool fingers brushed against my chest, each point of contact
sending sparks across my skin like he was made of static electricity and I
was a particularly conductive metal.
“The nobles seemed receptive to your rebuilding plans,” he said
conversationally, as if he wasn’t currently undressing me while my heart
was attempting to break the land speed record. His face was so close I could
see individual eyelashes, impossibly long and dark against his pale skin.
“Though Lord Whatshisface will require… additional persuasion.”
“Mm-hmm,” I managed, staring fixedly at a point over his shoulder
because looking at his face right now would be like staring directly at the
sun—painful, potentially damaging, and impossible to look away from once
you started. “Very persuasive. I mean, he needs persuading. Yes.”
Wow, Beau. Shakespeare is weeping with envy at your eloquence right
now. They should put that on a greeting card: ‘Very persuasive. I mean, he
needs persuading. Yes.’ Right next to ‘Get Well Soon’ and ‘Happy Birthday,
Grandma.’
Azrael’s fingers deftly worked their way down my shirt, each button
revealing more skin that immediately pebbled in the cool air—or possibly
from the way his eyes darkened as they followed his hands’ progress. When
he reached the last button, he slid the shirt from my shoulders with
agonizing slowness, his cool fingers trailing down my arms in a caress that
was definitely not standard butler procedure unless “How to Seduce Your
Master” was a chapter in Butler School that I’d somehow missed.
My heart was pounding so hard I was surprised it wasn’t visibly
deforming my chest like something from an alien movie. Each breath felt
shallow and insufficient, like my lungs had decided oxygen was overrated
compared to the scent of cedar and midnight that surrounded Azrael.
When his hands moved to my belt, I watched in a sort of fascinated
horror as those elegant fingers worked the leather free. The subtle brush of
his knuckles against my lower abdomen sent a jolt of heat straight to my
groin, and I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood.
 “I—” My voice cracked embarrassingly, and I cleared my throat. “I can
handle the rest!”
Azrael paused, his fingers still on my belt buckle, his face close enough
that I could feel his cool breath against my cheek. His eyes met mine, and
what I saw there made my breath catch—hunger, raw and barely contained,
like a predator deciding whether to pounce.
“Are you certain, my lord?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that I felt
in my chest more than heard. “It’s no trouble.”
No, the trouble was that I was about two seconds away from grabbing
his stupidly perfect face and finding out if those sculpted lips felt as good as
they looked. The trouble was that I had exactly zero experience with actual
sex despite being technically twenty-two years old, and I was pretty sure
fumbling like a virgin wasn’t the way to seduce your immortal demon
butler. The trouble was that my body was currently experiencing a rebellion
against my brain’s authority, and if he moved his hands any lower, he’d
encounter evidence of that rebellion that would be impossible to explain
away.
“Very certain!” I squeaked, my voice hitting notes that would make a
soprano jealous. “Super certain. The most certain anyone has ever been
about anything, ever. In the history of certainty.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth as I babbled, his pupils expanding until
the crimson was just a thin ring of fire around bottomless black. For a
moment—one heart-stopping, breath-catching moment—he swayed
forward slightly, close enough that I could feel the coolness radiating from
his skin, close enough that the slightest movement from either of us would
bring our lips together.
My heart threw itself against my rib cage like it was trying to escape,
and time seemed to stretch like taffy, each second lasting an eternity as we
stood frozen in that almost-embrace. His gaze was so intense I could
practically feel it like a physical touch, tracing over my face, lingering on
my lips in a way that made them tingle in anticipation.
Just when I thought he might actually close that infinitesimal distance, a
log shifted in the fireplace across the room, the sharp crack shattering the
moment like glass. Azrael straightened, stepping back with visible
reluctance, his perfect composure reassembling itself like armor being
locked into place.
 “I shall return shortly with your evening attire,” he said, his voice
rougher than usual, the only indication that he’d been affected at all by
whatever had just happened—or almost happened—between us.
The moment the door closed behind him, I practically tore off the rest of
my clothes, my fingers fumbling with buttons and clasps in their haste. I
was hard enough to cut diamonds, a condition that wasn’t going to resolve
itself through sheer willpower, and I needed to be submerged before Azrael
returned or suffer the most mortifying moment of my admittedly short life
as a demon king.
I practically dove into the bath, sending water sloshing over the sides in
my haste. The hot water did absolutely nothing to calm my overheated body
—if anything, it only heightened my awareness of every nerve ending
currently screaming for attention. The black rose petals swirled around me
like they were performing some kind of synchronized swimming routine,
their scent rising with the steam to fill my head with images that definitely
weren’t helping my current predicament.
I scrubbed myself with unnecessary vigor, as if I could somehow wash
away the memory of Azrael’s fingers on my skin, the heat in his eyes, the
way he’d looked at my mouth like it contained the secrets of the universe. It
wasn’t working. My mind kept conjuring increasingly vivid scenarios
involving those elegant hands doing things that definitely weren’t in any
butler manual I’d ever heard of. Scenarios that were making certain parts of
my anatomy stand at attention like they were auditioning for the royal
guard.
A soft knock at the door made me jump so violently I nearly drowned
myself.
“Enter,” I called, making sure I was sufficiently submerged to hide the
evidence of my continued interest. The water might be steaming, but it
wasn’t quite transparent enough to reveal the full extent of my
embarrassment, thank whatever dark deity was in charge of bath opacity.
Azrael returned with a stack of neatly folded fabric. “Your evening
attire, my lord.”
I squinted at the pile. “That doesn’t look like my usual pajamas.”
“You requested something more suitable for the warmer nights,” he
reminded me, setting the stack on a marble bench. “These arrived today
from the void realms.”
 I vaguely remembered adding some sleepwear to one of my
OpenSesame orders, but I’d been so focused on relief supplies and
construction materials that I hadn’t paid much attention to the details. Based
on the small size of the stack, I was starting to regret that lack of attention.
“I’ll assist with your hair, my lord,” Azrael said, picking up a small
crystal bottle of what I assumed was shampoo. Before I could protest, he
was kneeling behind me at the edge of the tub, his sleeves rolled farther up
to reveal more of those unfairly distracting forearms.
“That’s really not nec—” I began, but the words died in my throat as his
fingers slid into my hair, applying gentle pressure that sent shivers down
my spine. The sensation was so unexpectedly pleasurable that I had to bite
back a sound that would have been deeply inappropriate for a butler-master
relationship.
“The essence in this wash will enhance your natural luminosity,” Azrael
explained, his voice closer to my ear than I’d expected, his breath cool
against my skin. “It also strengthens magical pathways.”
I made a noncommittal noise that might have been agreement or might
have been the sound of my brain short-circuiting. His fingers moved in
slow, methodical circles across my scalp, each touch sending waves of
tingling pleasure through my body. If this was how he washed hair, I
couldn’t imagine what he’d do with more intimate activities. Actually, I
could imagine it all too well, which was exactly the problem.
“You have such beautiful hair, my lord,” Azrael murmured, his voice
pitched low enough that it felt like a secret between us. “Like moonlight
given form.”
My cheeks heated at the unexpected compliment. “It’s just hair,” I
mumbled, feeling weirdly vulnerable under his ministrations. “Nothing
special.”
“On the contrary,” he said, his fingers sliding to the nape of my neck in
a way that made my toes curl, “everything about you is exceptional.”
The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. For all his formal
manners and occasional creepiness, there was something in the way he said
it that made me believe he meant it—not as flattery to a superior, but as a
genuine observation.
“I—thanks,” I managed, not sure how to respond to that level of
earnestness. Compliments generally made me uncomfortable, like wearing
shoes that were slightly too small. I never knew what to do with them
except shuffle awkwardly and wait for the moment to pass.
Azrael’s hands moved to my shoulders, kneading muscles I hadn’t even
realized were tense. “You carry too much tension here,” he said, his thumbs
pressing into knots with just enough pressure to border on pain before
releasing into relief. “The weight of a realm is a heavy burden.”
“Yeah, well, accidentally becoming king of a demon realm wasn’t
exactly in my five-year career plan,” I said, trying for humor to distract
from how good his hands felt. “I was thinking more along the lines of
‘assistant manager at a coffee shop’ or ‘guy who designs t-shirts with
sarcastic sayings.’”
A soft sound that might have been a chuckle escaped him. His hands
slid lower, working at a particularly stubborn knot between my shoulder
blades. The position required him to lean closer, his chest nearly touching
my back, his breath ghosting across my damp skin. I was acutely aware of
every point just shy of contact, of the scant inches separating his body from
mine, of how easy it would be to lean back into him.
“I should rinse your hair, my lord,” he said after a moment that stretched
too long to be comfortable but not long enough to satisfy whatever
unnamed hunger was growing between us. He reached for a silver pitcher
beside the tub.
“I can do it,” I said quickly, suddenly desperate for some distance
before I did something stupid like turn around and kiss him. “You’ve done
enough.”
“As you wish.” He rose in one fluid motion, gathering the used towels.
“I shall await you in your chamber to assist with your evening
preparations.”
He left before I could respond, closing the door with a soft click that
somehow felt like both a reprieve and a disappointment. I slumped back
into the water, letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Get it together, Beau,” I muttered to myself. “You’re the Dark Lord of
Iferona, not some lovesick teenager. Act like it.”
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? I might be inhabiting the body of
an all-powerful demon king, but inside, I was still just Beau—awkward,
inexperienced, and apparently harboring a massive crush on my immortal
butler. A butler who was probably just doing his job and not experiencing
the same torturous attraction that was currently making parts of me float
despite water density physics.
I finished rinsing my hair and scrubbing the rest of me, trying to think
unsexy thoughts. Tax forms. Sewage systems. The time I got food
poisoning from gas station sushi. None of it helped. My mind kept circling
back to Azrael—his hands in my hair, his breath on my skin, the way his
eyes had darkened when they met mine.
Finally, I gave up and climbed out of the tub, wrapping a towel around
my waist. I approached the stack of “evening attire” with trepidation, lifting
the top item with the caution of someone handling an unexploded bomb.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” I groaned, holding up what
appeared to be the world’s smallest shorts. They were black with silver trim,
made of some silky material that felt like water in my hands. The matching
tank top was equally minimal, designed to show off far more skin than I
was comfortable displaying.
I had a vague memory of clicking “add to cart” on something labeled
“OpenSesame Cooling Sleepwear” during a late-night ordering session
when I couldn’t sleep. The product image had been tastefully cropped to
show only the top half, and I’d been too tired to read the full description.
Clearly, I should never be allowed to shop unsupervised after midnight.
With a resigned sigh, I pulled on the shorts, which barely covered the
essentials, and the tank, which clung to my torso like a second skin. A
glance in the mirror confirmed my fears—I looked like I was auditioning
for a very specific type of performance. The silver trim caught the light with
every movement, drawing attention to places I wasn’t used to highlighting.
“This is fine,” I muttered to my reflection. “It’s just sleepwear. No one’s
going to see it except⁠—”
I glanced down at my still-obvious arousal and quickly grabbed the robe
hanging nearby, wrapping it tightly around myself. There was no way in
hell I was letting Azrael see me in this state. I’d never live down the
embarrassment.
When I emerged from the bathroom, Azrael was arranging pillows on
my bed with the same meticulous attention he gave to everything. He turned
at my entrance, his eyes taking in the robe with a slightly raised eyebrow.
“Are the new garments not to your liking, my lord?” he asked, his voice
perfectly neutral despite the intensity of his gaze.
 “They’re fine,” I said quickly. “Just a bit… drafty. I’ll change into them
after you leave.”
“As you wish.” He moved to the nightstand where he’d placed a glass
of what looked like wine. “Your evening draught, my lord. It aids in restful
sleep.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking the glass and trying not to notice how his
fingers brushed against mine in the transfer. “Though I’m not sure I’ll need
help sleeping. Today was exhausting.”
“Indeed, my lord.” His eyes hadn’t left me, tracking every small
movement as I took a sip of the drink. It tasted like berries and honey with
an undertone of something herbal.
“Is there anything else you require before retiring?” he asked, and was it
my imagination or did his gaze linger on the loosely tied belt of my robe?
“I think I’m good,” I replied, setting the half-empty glass on the
nightstand.
“Very good, my lord.” Azrael moved to leave, but paused beside me,
close enough that I could feel the coolness radiating from his body. “If I
may be so bold… you seem troubled. Is there anything I can do to ease your
mind?”
You could kiss me. You could throw me on that bed and show me exactly
what you’ve been thinking behind those crimson eyes. You could put your
hands all over me and make me forget my own name.
“Nope!” I said, my voice unnaturally bright. “All good here! Just
normal dark lord stuff. Rebuilding kingdoms, reforming societies, ordering
questionable sleepwear. You know, the usual.”
He studied me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine as if trying
to read the thoughts I was desperately trying to hide. Then, slowly,
deliberately, he reached out and adjusted the collar of my robe where it had
slipped slightly, his fingers brushing against my neck in a touch that sent
electricity racing down my spine.
“Sleep well, my lord,” he murmured, his face close enough that I could
feel his breath against my lips.
For a moment, I thought he might close that final distance. His eyes
dropped to my mouth, his pupils dilating until the crimson was just a thin
ring around bottomless black. I unconsciously swayed toward him, drawn
by some invisible force that made resistance seem pointless.
 Then, just as I was certain something was about to happen, he stepped
back, his expression shuttering closed like blinds being drawn.
“I shall return at seven to prepare your morning meal,” he said, his
voice perfectly composed once more. “Unless you wish to sleep later?”
“Seven is fine,” I managed, trying to hide my disappointment behind a
yawn. “Thanks.”
He bowed slightly and withdrew, closing the door with a soft click that
somehow felt like the end of a possibility rather than just a piece of wood
meeting a frame.
I stared at the closed door for a long moment, torn between frustration
and relief. On the one hand, I was pretty sure I’d just missed my chance to
find out if demon butlers kissed as good as they looked. On the other hand,
I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, and the prospect of embarrassing
myself was almost as terrifying as the intensity of what I was feeling. The
last time I’d tried to kiss someone was in eighth grade, and I’d somehow
managed to headbutt him hard enough to give him a nosebleed. Not exactly
the romantic foundation you want when contemplating seducing your
immortal demon butler.
With a sigh that could have powered a small windmill, I drained the rest
of my evening drink and dropped the robe, looking down at my ridiculous
new sleepwear. The shorts were so small they might as well have been a
denim suggestion, and the tank top left absolutely nothing to the
imagination. If Azrael had seen me in this, I’d have spontaneously
combusted from embarrassment, leaving nothing but a pile of ashes and two
tiny pieces of fabric for him to clean up.
I climbed into bed, pulling the silk sheets up to my waist. Despite the
“cooling properties” of my new sleepwear, I felt overheated, my skin
prickling with awareness and unfulfilled desire like I’d been dipped in spicy
honey and left to marinate. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Azrael’s
face, felt the phantom touch of his fingers against my skin, and my body
responded like it was getting paid overtime.
Sleep, unsurprisingly, proved as elusive as financial stability had been
in my previous life.
After an hour of tossing and turning like I was auditioning for an
infomercial about insomnia, I gave up and sat up in bed, punching my
pillow into a more comfortable shape. My arousal hadn’t subsided at all; if
anything, it had gotten worse, my cock straining against the thin fabric of
the shorts until it was almost painful. At this point, I was pretty sure I could
hang a wet towel on it.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, sliding a hand beneath the waistband to
adjust myself. The contact sent a jolt of pleasure through me so intense I
gasped. It had been days since I'd had any… private time, and the
accumulated tension of the evening had left me so on edge I could probably
cut diamonds with parts of my anatomy that definitely weren't designed for
lapidary work.
With a resigned sigh, I slipped the shorts down my hips and wrapped a
hand around myself. Might as well take the edge off if I had any hope of
sleeping tonight. Though at this point, I was so keyed up I’d probably need
to be knocked unconscious with a shovel to actually get any rest.
I started with slow, measured strokes, trying to keep my mind blank.
But it was a losing battle, like trying not to think about pink elephants or
that embarrassing thing I said at a party six years ago. Within seconds, my
thoughts returned to Azrael—his intense gaze, his cool touch, the way he’d
looked at me like I was something he desperately wanted to taste but wasn’t
allowed to touch. I imagined those elegant hands replacing mine, stroking
me with the same precise attention he gave to everything from folding
napkins to rearranging my sock drawer. His cool fingers would be a
shocking contrast to my overheated skin, his touch firm but gentle, like he
was handling something precious but not fragile.
In my mind, he leaned over me, those crimson eyes locked on mine as
he whispered praise in that velvet voice. “So beautiful, my lord. So perfect
for me.” His lips would brush against mine, cool and soft at first, then more
insistent, claiming me with a hunger that matched my own. I could almost
feel the weight of him pressing me into the mattress, the coolness of his
skin against my heat like the world’s sexiest ice pack.
My pace quickened, my breath coming in short gasps as I stroked
myself with increasing urgency. In my fantasy, Azrael’s mouth trailed down
my neck, leaving a path of cool fire in its wake like the world’s most erotic
Icy Hot commercial. His hands would explore my body with reverent
attention, learning every sensitive spot, every place that made me gasp and
arch against him. When his lips closed around a nipple, the contrast
between the cool of his mouth and the heat of my skin would be exquisite
torture, like biting into ice cream too fast but in the best possible way.
 “Fuck,” I gasped, my free hand moving to my chest to mimic the
fantasy, pinching and rolling a nipple between my fingers. The sensation
was good, but nothing like what I imagined Azrael’s mouth would feel like.
It was like comparing a convenience store hot dog to a five-star steak dinner
—technically the same category of experience, but worlds apart in
execution.
My fantasy continued, Azrael’s exploration moving lower, his tongue
tracing patterns across my stomach, his hands gripping my thighs to spread
them wide. When he finally took me into his mouth, it would be with the
same focused intensity he brought to everything—cool, wet, and
relentlessly perfect, like the world’s most enthusiastic popsicle connoisseur.
I was stroking myself faster now, my back arching off the bed as the
pleasure built. But something was wrong. Despite the vividness of my
fantasy, despite the physical stimulation, I wasn’t getting closer to release.
If anything, I felt more frustrated, like there was an itch I couldn’t quite
reach or a sneeze that wouldn’t quite happen. It was like edging, except I
hadn’t signed up for it and wasn’t enjoying the wait.
This had never happened before. Back on Earth, it never took me long
to finish, especially with fantasies this detailed. A stiff breeze and an
attractive thought were usually enough to get the job done. But now, in this
demon body, it was like my usual methods weren’t enough. Like I needed…
more. Like I was trying to start a bonfire with a birthday candle.
Experimentally, I let my free hand wander lower, past my straining cock
to the sensitive skin behind. The touch sent a shiver through me but still
didn’t push me toward the edge I was desperately seeking. Without really
thinking about it, I pressed a finger against my entrance, surprised at how
natural the impulse felt. This wasn’t something I’d explored much before,
mostly due to lack of privacy in college dorms and a general sense that I’d
probably do it wrong and end up in an emergency room trying to explain
myself to a judgmental doctor.
My body responded eagerly, accepting the intrusion with a readiness
that startled me. It was like this form knew what it wanted, even if my mind
was still catching up, like muscle memory for something I’d never actually
done before. I pushed deeper, feeling a jolt of pleasure so intense it made
me gasp when I brushed against something inside me that apparently had a
direct hotline to every nerve ending in my body.
 “Holy shit,” I breathed, adding a second finger alongside the first,
stretching myself in a way that burned slightly but quickly gave way to
pleasure. In my fantasy, it was Azrael’s fingers inside me, preparing me for
something larger, his eyes never leaving mine as he worked me open with
patient determination like the world’s sexiest locksmith.
But even this wasn’t enough. The dual stimulation of my hand on my
cock and my fingers inside me was good—better than good, actually—but
it still wasn’t pushing me over the edge. It was like my body was waiting
for something more, something I couldn’t provide on my own. Like trying
to tickle yourself—you know all the right spots, but it’s just not the same as
when someone else does it.

OceanofPDF.com
 23

Lucien/Beau

“W hat the hell?” I muttered, frustration mounting alongside pleasure.

Was this a demon thing? Some weird quirk of this body that
required more intense stimulation than I was used to? Whatever the
case, I was starting to think I might actually die from sexual frustration,
which would be a pretty embarrassing way for the Dark Lord of Iferona to
go. “Here lies Lucien Noir, who faced many dangers but was ultimately
defeated by his inability to get off. May he rest in perpetually horny peace.”
I tried changing positions, tried different rhythms, tried focusing on
different fantasies—Azrael taking me from behind, Azrael pinning my
wrists above my head, even briefly revisiting old fantasies about Professor
Sinclair and Professor Holloway from my university days. Nothing worked.
I remained stubbornly on the edge, desperate for release but unable to find
it, like a roller coaster that climbs to the top of the hill but never drops.
“This is insane,” I groaned, collapsing back against the pillows, still
hard and aching. “What does it take to get off in this body? A written
invitation? A complex ritual involving the phases of the moon? A signed
permission slip from the Minister of Orgasms?”
A soft snuffling sound from the doorway made me nearly jump out of
my skin. I yanked the sheets up to my chin with the speed of someone
who’d been caught watching porn by their grandmother.
Mr. Snuggles stood in the doorway, his tiny cat-sized dragon form
silhouetted against the dim light from the hallway. His purple eye glowed in
the darkness as he tilted his head, regarding me with what seemed like
genuine concern.
“How did you—” I glanced at the door I was certain I’d closed. “Did
you seriously just phase through solid wood? Is nothing sacred?”
Mr. Snuggles made a low rumble, padding into the room with that
peculiar grace that made him seem both adorable and slightly otherworldly.
He hopped onto the bed before I could protest, his tiny claws making little
dimples in the silk sheets.
“No, no, no,” I hissed, trying to shoo him away without exposing
myself. “This is private time, Snuggles. Human private time. Don’t dragons
have some concept of personal space?”
He blinked at me with that single purple eye, looking so innocently
confused that I almost felt bad for scolding him. Almost. Then he did
something strange—he sniffed the air, his little nostrils flaring, and made a
rumbling sound deep in his throat that I’d never heard before.
“What? Do I smell weird?” I asked, then immediately regretted it. Of
course I smelled weird. I was in the middle of a one-man party that wasn’t
going according to plan. “Look, just… go find a nice pile of treasure to
sleep on or something. I need some alone time.”
Instead of leaving, Mr. Snuggles moved closer, nudging my arm with
his snout in what seemed like… was that encouragement?
“You have got to be kidding me,” I muttered, using my free hand to
gently push him away. “I am not having this conversation with a pet dragon.
Shoo!”
He stubbornly refused to budge, instead settling more comfortably on
the bed with a look that clearly said he had no intention of going anywhere.
“Fine,” I growled, throwing back the covers and standing up in all my
naked, still-aroused glory. “If you won’t leave, I’m removing you.”
I scooped up the miniature dragon, who made a surprised little huff as I
lifted him. He stared directly at my very obvious erection with what I could
have sworn was professional interest rather than the decency to look away.
“Are you… judging me?” I asked incredulously, suddenly feeling self-
conscious despite the absurdity of caring what a dragon thought about my
anatomy. “Stop staring! This is weird enough already!”
I carried him to the bathroom, his tiny body warm against my bare
chest, and gently but firmly placed him inside. “You stay here until I’m
done with… whatever this is going to be. Dragon time-out.”
 Mr. Snuggles gave me what could only be described as an exasperated
look before I closed the door on him. I heard a disgruntled snort from the
other side, followed by what sounded like claws scratching at the wood.
“Sorry, buddy. Some things aren’t meant to be spectator sports,” I called
through the door.
Remembering how Azrael had contained Mr. Snuggles during my bath
sessions, I concentrated briefly, drawing on my shadow powers to create a
simple barrier across the doorway. A faint dark shimmer briefly outlined the
doorframe before fading from sight.
“Just a little something I picked up from watching Azrael,” I murmured,
feeling a small surge of pride at successfully casting the containment spell.
“That should keep you occupied for a while.”
I returned to the bed, ignoring the indignant rumbling now coming from
behind the magically sealed door.
“Sorry, buddy. Some things aren’t meant to be spectator sports,” I called
through the door before returning to the bed.
On impulse, I reached for the blue interface. “Supremo,” I whispered,
hoping my voice wouldn’t carry beyond the room. “I need… um… personal
items.”
The interface brightened, casting a blue glow over the bed. [Welcome,
Lord Lucien!] The voice boomed cheerfully.
I still cringed and glanced frantically at the door, irrationally terrified
that Azrael might somehow hear it despite knowing full well the interface
was only visible and audible to me. Old habits from sharing thin-walled
dorm rooms die hard.
“Shhh! Lower your voice!” I hissed, feeling ridiculous for shushing an
interdimensional AI that no one else could hear. “I need… um… personal
items.”
[Helpdesk Supreme acknowledges volume adjustment request. This unit
observes that valued customer appears to be in a state of significant
physical distress. Would you like to browse our medical catalog?]
“No, no, no,” I interrupted, feeling my face heat up despite being
completely alone. “I mean… you know… adult adult items. The kind you
don’t display in the front window.”
[Helpdesk Supreme requires more specific parameters. ‘Adult items’
encompasses 247 different product categories including financial planning
services, retirement home furnishings, and denture adhesives.]
 “Are you being deliberately obtuse?” I whispered harshly. “Things
for… pleasure. Personal pleasure. Like… bedroom things.”
From the bathroom, I heard a muffled sound that suspiciously
resembled a dragon snickering.
“You can’t even hear this conversation!” I called toward the bathroom.
“Stop eavesdropping on things you can’t possibly be eavesdropping on!”
[Ah! Bedroom items! Helpdesk Supreme can offer luxury beds,
ergonomic pillows, weighted blankets, sleep-aid diffusers⁠—]
“For the love of—” I took a deep breath. “Sex toys! I need sex toys!”
The moment the words left my mouth, I heard a strange choking sound
from the bathroom, like Mr. Snuggles had swallowed a hairball made of
surprise.
The interface dimmed momentarily, then brightened with what I swear
was a judgmental blue glow.
[Helpdesk Supreme notes this request represents a 99.8% deviation
from typical Dark Lord procurement patterns. Most rulers in your position
order implements of torture, not pleasure. Would valued customer prefer to
redirect to our ‘Instruments of Suffering’ catalog instead?]
“No! I want the pleasure catalog!” I hissed, mortification warring with
desperation. “Just show me what you’ve got!”
[To access adult content, Helpdesk Supreme requires completion of a
brief 27-question survey regarding your preferences, experience level, and
flexibility metrics. This ensures optimal product recommendations.]
“Twenty-seven questions?! I just need something to get off with, not
apply for a mortgage!”
A muffled snort came from the bathroom, followed by what sounded
like claws scrabbling more insistently at the door.
“You’re not helping!” I called out.
[Helpdesk Supreme can abbreviate the questionnaire to the seven most
essential questions. Question one: On a scale from ‘slightly adventurous’ to
‘interdimensionally notorious,’ how would you rate your experience level?]
“Barely adventurous,” I muttered, sinking further into the pillows. “Just
show me the basics.”
[Noted. Question two: Would you describe your current needs as
‘curious exploration,’ ‘moderate satisfaction,’ or ‘desperate enough to
consider bargaining with elder gods’?]
“The last one,” I growled. “Definitely the last one.”
 [Helpdesk Supreme notes your desperation levels with… professional
interest. Question three: Do you prefer items with autonomous functionality
or manual operation?]
“I don’t even know what that means!”
[This unit will mark you down for ‘requires detailed instruction
manual.’ Question four: What is your preferred material composition?
Options include silicone, enchanted crystal, sentient shadow essence, or
living metal that adapts to user preferences.]
“Silicone! Just normal silicone!” I whispered frantically. “Nothing
sentient or alive, for God’s sake!”
[How disappointingly conventional. Question five: What size category
are you comfortable with? Options range from ‘modest beginner’ to
‘legendary challenge’ to ‘anatomically inadvisable.’]
“Modest to moderate,” I said, then reconsidered, thinking of Azrael’s
tall form. “Maybe… um… large? But not anatomically inadvisable!”
A strange scratching sound came from beneath the bathroom door, as if
tiny claws were trying to dig their way through.
[Helpdesk Supreme notes this selection with what humans might call
‘raised eyebrows.’ Question six: Are you interested in supplementary
restraint devices, or do you prefer to maintain the illusion of control?]
“I—what? No! Maybe? I don’t know!” I buried my face in my hands.
“Just put down ‘undecided’!”
[Fascinating. Final question: Is this purchase for personal use, or are
you planning to incorporate another participant? Helpdesk Supreme
observes that Lord Azrael’s quarters are approximately 37 meters from your
current location.]
“That is absolutely none of your business!” I spluttered, my face
burning hot enough to fry an egg. “Personal use only! And how do you even
know where Azrael’s room is?”
From the bathroom came a low growling sound that I’d never heard
from Mr. Snuggles before. It wasn’t threatening, exactly, but it definitely
wasn’t his usual cheerful rumble.
[Helpdesk Supreme maintains comprehensive spatial awareness of
account holder environments to optimize delivery protocols. Based on your
questionnaire results and this unit’s analysis of your physiological state, you
have been categorized as ‘Desperately Inexperienced But Ambitious.’
Would you like to view recommended products for this category?]
 “Yes, fine, whatever! Just hurry up!”
The interface expanded, displaying a rotating hologram of what
appeared to be a sizeable black silicone implement.
[Helpdesk Supreme’s top recommendation is the Demon Destroyer
3000, featuring adjustable size, multiple vibration patterns, and self-
lubrication capabilities. This model is particularly popular among first-time
users with unexpectedly insatiable appetites.]
I stared at the displayed dimensions with widening eyes. “That’s… very
large. Like, concerningly large. Like, ‘call a doctor if you survive using it’
large.”
[The Demon Destroyer 3000 is available in various sizes. However,
based on your previous selection of ‘large’ and this unit’s analysis of your
apparent fantasies about certain tall household staff, Helpdesk Supreme
stands by this recommendation.]
“Are you reading my mind now?!”
[Helpdesk Supreme does not possess mind-reading capabilities. This
unit merely observes behavioral patterns, pupil dilation, and pheromone
production when certain individuals are present. Would you prefer a more
modest selection, despite your obvious preferences?]
“The large one,” I blurted before I could overthink it, my arousal
apparently making decisions without consulting my self-preservation
instinct. “The large one is fine. Can we please just complete this order
before I die of embarrassment?”
[Excellent choice! The Demon Destroyer 3000 in large is our most
popular size among demon nobility, particularly those with tall, dark
butlers. Would you like to add the Sensation Enhancement Oil? Customers
who purchased the Demon Destroyer 3000 also frequently purchase this
complimentary product for a 73.4% increase in satisfaction metrics.]
“Sure, fine, whatever,” I muttered, just wanting to complete this
mortifying transaction as quickly as possible. “Anything else I need?”
[Based on your selections and obvious inexperience, you qualify for our
special Adventurer’s Intimacy Kit at a discounted price! This
comprehensive collection includes the Demon Destroyer 3000, Sensation
Enhancement Oil, Celestial Restraints, Pleasure Crystals, Shapeshifter’s
Delight, Immortal’s Stamina Potion, The Submissive’s Handbook, and Void
Pleasure Beads!]
“Wait, what? I don’t need all that!”
 The scratching at the bathroom door had become more insistent,
accompanied by what sounded like impatient huffing.
[Helpdesk Supreme’s analysis indicates a 97.8% probability that you
will indeed require all items in this collection. This unit has never
encountered a demonic physiology with your particular combination of
inexperience and supernatural stamina. The Submissive’s Handbook alone
will be essential reading for your… aspirations.]
“My what?! I don’t have⁠—”
[Order processing initiated. To confirm this purchase, please verbally
acknowledge the following disclaimer: “I, Lord Lucien, confirm that I am
using these items at my own risk and will not hold OpenSesame responsible
for any pleasure-induced loss of consciousness, temporary dimensional rifts
caused by particularly intense orgasms, or inadvertent summoning of minor
pleasure entities.”]
“That can happen?!”
[Disclaimer acknowledgment required to complete purchase.]
“Fine! I, Lord Lucien, confirm that I’m using these at my own risk and
—wait, did you say summoning entities?”
[Order confirmed! Your Adventurer’s Intimacy Kit will be delivered
immediately. Helpdesk Supreme thanks you for your purchase and wishes
you an educational evening. This unit will maintain discreet monitoring to
ensure no interdimensional incidents occur during product use.]
“What? No! No monitoring!”
[Helpdesk Supreme assures valued customer that all monitoring is for
safety purposes only and no recordings are maintained… unless specifically
requested for the premium ‘Performance Review’ service.]
“Absolutely not! Go away now, please!”
[Helpdesk Supreme will respectfully withdraw active interface presence
but reminds valued customer that the emergency assistance protocol can be
activated by saying “Ultraexpialimagnificent Supremo” three times in rapid
succession. Enjoy your evening of discovery, Lord Lucien.]
“Ultra-expia-what? There’s no way I could pronounce that in an
emergency!”
[Helpdesk Supreme assures valued customer that the emergency phrase
was selected specifically for its unlikely accidental activation. Alternative
activation phrases include “Antidisestablishmentarianism Now” or
“Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis Please.” Would you
prefer one of these options instead?]
“How about something I can actually say? Like ‘customer service’ or
‘refund policy’?”
[Helpdesk Supreme cannot use common phrases as emergency
protocols due to the high probability of accidental activation. Perhaps
valued customer would prefer to select a unique safe word?]
“Fine. How about ‘pineapple pizza’?”
[Safe word rejected. Analysis indicates ‘pineapple pizza’ has a 27.3%
chance of being mentioned during post-coital food cravings.]
“Seriously? Okay, how about ‘midterm exam’?”
[Safe word rejected. The phrase ‘midterm exam’ has been statistically
proven to instantly eliminate arousal, which would defeat the purpose of
your purchase.]
“That’s kind of the point of a safe word!”
[Helpdesk Supreme suggests ‘OpenSesame Corporate Quarterly
Review’ as an appropriately unsexy yet memorable emergency phrase.]
“That’s… actually perfect. No one would ever say that accidentally in
the throes of passion.”
[Safe word confirmed. Emergency protocols will activate upon
utterance of ‘OpenSesame Corporate Quarterly Review.’ Helpdesk Supreme
wishes valued customer a pleasurable and educational experience.]
“Just go away now, please.”
A shimmering portal appeared above my bed, and a discreet black box
dropped onto the mattress beside me. The interface dimmed, leaving me
alone with my purchase and my rapidly returning embarrassment.
At that moment, a patch of shadow in the corner of the room darkened
and rippled, and Mr. Snuggles simply emerged from it like he was walking
through a doorway. His purple eye gleamed with satisfaction at having
bypassed my magical barrier through his shadow-walking ability, his tail
swishing proudly behind him.
“How did you—” I began, then sighed. “Right. Shadow dragon.
Magical barriers probably aren’t much of an obstacle for you, are they?”
Mr. Snuggles made a smug rumbling sound that clearly communicated
his opinion of my amateur containment spell compared to his ancient
shadow powers. He trotted into the room with an air of satisfaction, his
purple eye immediately fixing on the black box that had appeared on my
bed. He made a beeline for it, looking for all the world like he’d been
waiting for this delivery as eagerly as I had.
“No! This is not for dragons!” I scolded, trying to push the box away
from him. “What have I done?” I groaned, staring at the box like it might
contain a live snake. But curiosity and persistent arousal won out over
mortification. I opened the lid cautiously, as if expecting something to jump
out and give me a lecture on responsible adult toy ownership.
Mr. Snuggles immediately stretched his neck to peer inside, making a
soft rumbling sound that seemed almost approving.
“This is beyond inappropriate,” I told him, trying to shield the contents
from his view. “I’ve never had a pet before, but I’m pretty sure this crosses
some kind of owner-pet boundary.”
Inside was an assortment that made my eyes widen and my face heat up
to approximately the temperature of the sun’s surface. On top was what
appeared to be a welcome note on elegant parchment.
“Congratulations on your Intimate Pleasure Collection! Based on your
purchase of the Demon Destroyer 3000, we’ve included our most popular
Adventurer’s Intimacy Kit at a special first-time buyer’s discount!”
The “Demon Destroyer 3000” was immediately identifiable—a sizeable
black silicone implement that made me question both my judgment and my
anatomy. It was massive, curved in a way that suggested it knew exactly
what it was doing even if I didn’t, with a slight iridescent sheen that caught
the moonlight filtering through my window. It looked less like something
you’d use for pleasure and more like something you’d use to threaten small
countries.
“Holy shit,” I whispered, lifting it from the box. “This thing is
practically a weapon. What was I thinking? I’m going to need a safe word
just to look at it.”
Mr. Snuggles made a strange gurgling sound that seemed to combine
shock, amusement, and what I could have sworn was approval. He crept
closer, sniffing at the toy with what appeared to be professional assessment.
“This is not for you to evaluate,” I told him firmly, trying to shield the
toy from his view. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Literally
anywhere else?”
As if responding to my dismay, a small card fluttered out from beneath
the toy.
 “Adjusts to the user’s comfort level. Simply think of your desired size
while holding the base.”
“That’s… convenient,” I murmured, cautiously holding the base. It felt
warm in my hand, almost alive, and as I concentrated on a more reasonable
dimension, it obligingly shrank to a less terrifying size. “Okay, that’s
actually pretty impressive. Like a Goldilocks dildo—not too big, not too
small, just right.”
Mr. Snuggles made a huffing sound, and I swear his eye roll was
practically audible.
“You know what? Fine,” I said, giving up on modesty or propriety. “If
you’re determined to stay, at least turn around or something. This is weird
enough without you staring.”
Mr. Snuggles did not turn around. If anything, he seemed to settle in
more comfortably, his eye fixed on me with what looked like anticipation.
I rummaged through the rest of the box, discovering an assortment of
mysterious items. There were some silver ribbonlike things labeled
“Celestial Restraints,” glowing crystals, various bottles and vials, and some
strange black spheres that seemed to absorb light. There was also a book
with the promising title The Submissive’s Handbook: A Beginner’s Guide to
Pleasure, which I quickly shoved under my pillow before I could dwell too
much on why that particular title caught my interest. The cover featured an
illustration that made me question whether spines were actually supposed to
bend that way.
“This is ridiculous,” I told myself, even as I reached for the oil. “I’m the
Dark Lord of Iferona, not some horny teenager experimenting in his
bedroom. I should be planning infrastructure improvements or practicing
my evil laugh, not testing magical sex toys.”
Except that’s exactly what you are, a traitorous voice in my head pointed
out. A horny, inexperienced mess who’s about to use a magical sex toy while
fantasizing about his butler. Your résumé might say ‘Dark Lord,’ but your
browser history would definitely say ‘desperate virgin.’
I unscrewed the cap on the oil, noting that it was meant to “enhance
sensation tenfold” and required only a small amount. Given my current
state, that seemed like overkill, like using a flamethrower to light a birthday
candle, but curiosity won out. I dabbed a tiny drop on my finger and
cautiously applied it to my neck, a relatively innocent place to test its
effects.
 The sensation was immediate and intense—a bloom of warmth that
spread outward from the point of contact, making my skin hypersensitive.
Even the slight brush of air as I moved sent shivers of pleasure across the
treated area, like being tickled by invisible feathers made of pure sensation.
“Okay,” I breathed, “that’s… wow. That’s not enhancement, that’s a
complete nervous system upgrade.”
Mr. Snuggles was watching me with obvious interest, his head tilted as
if studying my reaction for future reference. Which was… disturbing on
multiple levels.
“Do you mind?” I asked him pointedly. “This is getting creepy. Don’t
you have dragon things to do? A treasure hoard to organize? Maidens to
terrorize? Anything?”
He responded by settling more comfortably at the foot of the bed,
curling his tail around himself like a cat preparing for a long nap. His purple
eye remained fixed on me with unnerving attention.
Emboldened by the success of the first experiment, I applied a small
amount of oil to more strategic areas—my inner thighs, my nipples, and
with only slight hesitation, my already hard cock. The effect was electric,
turning every slight touch into an almost overwhelming sensation, like
someone had replaced my nerve endings with live wires connected directly
to my pleasure centers.
I leaned back against the pillows, one hand wrapped around myself, the
other exploring the newly sensitized landscape of my body. The
enhancement oil amplified every sensation, making even the lightest touch
feel like a direct line to my nervous system. But I knew from my earlier
attempts that this alone wouldn’t be enough. It was like upgrading the
sound system in a car that had no engine—better quality but still not going
anywhere.
With a mixture of anticipation and nervousness, I reached for the
resized toy and the small vial of lubricant that had come with it. I’d never
done this before, but theory and fantasy had given me a general idea of the
mechanics. I was like someone who’d read a thousand restaurant reviews
without ever actually tasting the food.
“Just remember what you learned from those ‘educational videos’ in
college,” I muttered to myself, squeezing probably way too much lubricant
onto the toy. “You know, the ones you had to watch with headphones and
the door locked and your finger hovering over the escape key.”
 I suddenly remembered I wasn’t alone and glanced down at Mr.
Snuggles, who was watching the proceedings with what appeared to be
scientific curiosity.
“Seriously? You’re still here? This is beyond inappropriate,” I said
weakly, but I was too far gone in need to really care anymore. The oil had
made every nerve ending hyperaware, and the emptiness inside me had
become an ache that demanded to be filled.
The lubricant warmed on contact, giving off a faint scent of something
exotic I couldn’t quite place—like cinnamon and thunderstorms had a baby.
I positioned myself on my back, knees bent, feeling both ridiculous and
desperately turned on. The cool air against my overheated skin sent shivers
down my spine as I reached between my legs, tentatively circling my
entrance with slick fingers.
To my surprise, my body responded eagerly, accepting the intrusion
with a readiness that startled me. It was like this form had been waiting for
this moment while my brain was still catching up to the program.
“Okay,” I whispered, positioning the toy at my entrance. “Here goes
nothing. Or possibly everything. Let’s find out.”
Mr. Snuggles made a soft rumbling sound that seemed almost like
encouragement, nodding his tiny head as if giving approval.
“This is so weird,” I muttered, momentarily distracted by the absurdity
of having a dragon cheerleader for my sexual experimentation. “I’m getting
performance anxiety with an audience here.”
The initial stretch burned slightly, a strange pressure that walked the
line between discomfort and pleasure. I bit my lip, breathing through it,
until suddenly⁠—
“Holy FUCK!” I gasped as the toy slid deeper, hitting something inside
me that sent electric shocks of pleasure racing up my spine. My back arched
off the bed involuntarily, every nerve ending suddenly firing at once. “What
the—how did I not know about this?”
Mr. Snuggles made a smug little huffing sound that seemed to say “I
told you so,” his purple eye gleaming with what looked suspiciously like
satisfaction.
In my mind, it wasn’t silicone inside me but Azrael—his cool hardness
stretching me open, his weight pressing me into the mattress. I could almost
see him above me, those crimson eyes darkened with lust, watching my
every reaction with predatory intensity.
 “Azrael,” I moaned, the name escaping before I could stop it.
Mr. Snuggles immediately made a disgruntled sound, almost like a
growl, his eye narrowing in what appeared to be disapproval. I barely
registered his reaction, already too far gone in my fantasy to care about a
dragon’s judgment of my choice in fantasy partners.
The fantasy unfolded in vivid detail as I began to move the toy. Azrael
would pin my wrists above my head with one hand, the other gripping my
hip hard enough to bruise. His lips would claim mine in a kiss that was
more possession than affection, his tongue invading my mouth the way his
body invaded mine. I’d be helpless beneath him, completely at his mercy,
and loving every second of it.
“Please,” I gasped to my empty room, lost in the fantasy as I worked the
toy deeper. “More, I need⁠—”
In my mind, Azrael’s cool mouth trailed down my neck, leaving marks
that would show everyone who I belonged to. His teeth would scrape
against my pulse point before biting down, the pain only enhancing the
pleasure. I imagined his voice, that velvet darkness whispering filthy
promises in my ear.
“You’re mine,” fantasy-Azrael growled. “Say it. Tell me who you
belong to.”
“Yours,” I panted, increasing the pace, my free hand working frantically
over my length. “I’m yours, Azrael, please⁠—”
The dual stimulation was incredible, better than anything I’d
experienced before, but somehow it still wasn’t enough. The pleasure built
and built, a coiling tension that promised release but somehow kept it just
out of reach. It was like climbing a mountain only to discover the peak kept
moving higher.
“Why isn’t this working?” I groaned in frustration, sweat beading on my
forehead as I chased a climax that remained stubbornly elusive. My arm
was starting to cramp from the awkward angle, and my wrist protested the
continued movement, but stopping now seemed impossible. I was trapped
in a delicious torture of my own making.
The toy suddenly began to vibrate, startling a cry from my lips. I hadn’t
activated any settings, but it seemed to be responding to my desperation,
intensifying in a way that finally, finally pushed me toward the edge I’d
been desperately seeking.
 “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh FUCK—” The words dissolved into incoherent
moans as the first orgasm crashed through me like a tidal wave. My back
arched off the bed, toes curling, vision whiting out as pleasure more intense
than anything I’d ever experienced ripped through me. I came harder than I
thought possible, Azrael’s name torn from my throat as my body convulsed
around the toy.
But instead of the usual post-orgasmic drowsiness, I felt… energized.
My cock barely softened before beginning to harden again, the persistent
ache of desire returning almost immediately. It was like my body had
discovered a new favorite activity and wasn’t about to let a little thing like a
mind-shattering orgasm slow it down.
“What the actual hell?” I stared down at myself in confusion and
growing alarm. “Is this normal? Is this a demon thing? Or am I stuck in
some sort of sexual Groundhog Day?”
Mr. Snuggles made a sound that was unmistakably a dragon chuckle, his
purple eye gleaming with what looked disturbingly like “I told you so.”
I tried to remove the toy, but my body clenched around it, reluctant to
let go of the source of such intense pleasure. When I finally managed to
extract it, I flopped back against the pillows, breathing hard and wondering
what was happening to me.
The respite lasted approximately thirty seconds before the need
returned, stronger than before. It was like an itch under my skin, a hunger
that one meal couldn’t satisfy. I was both exhausted and desperate for more,
my body demanding satisfaction while my mind struggled to catch up.
“Round two, I guess,” I muttered, reaching for the toy again. “Though
at this rate, I might need to schedule an intervention for myself.”
Mr. Snuggles, rather than showing any signs of boredom or discomfort
with the situation, seemed to be settling in for the long haul. He had moved
to the pillow beside mine, curled up with his tail wrapped neatly around his
body, watching the proceedings.
“You’re a very strange dragon, you know that?” I told him, too
overwhelmed by need to really care about his presence anymore. “Most
pets would have the decency to at least pretend to be asleep.”
I turned away slightly, creating at least the illusion of privacy. My
body’s demands had reached the point where embarrassment was a luxury I
couldn’t afford. The persistent ache inside me had become an all-consuming
need that overrode any remaining sense of propriety.
 This time, I didn’t bother with slow and careful. I positioned the toy and
sank down onto it with a desperate moan, taking it deeper than before. The
stretch was delicious, the fullness exactly what I needed.
“Fuck,” I gasped, setting a rhythm that had my thighs trembling with
effort. In my mind, Azrael was beneath me, those crimson eyes watching
my every move as I rode him.
“You look exquisite like this,” fantasy-Azrael murmured, his cool hands
gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. “Taking me so perfectly.”
I felt hands on my shoulders—Wes, golden and glowing in my
imagination, pressing against my back, his lips finding my neck. “Let us
take care of you,” he whispered, his voice like honey. “You don’t have to be
in control all the time.”
The fantasy shifted and suddenly I was on my hands and knees, Azrael
behind me, driving into me with relentless precision while Wes knelt before
me, his cock inches from my lips. I opened for him eagerly, the taste of him
filling my mouth as Azrael filled me from behind.
“That’s it,” Cole’s voice came from somewhere beside me, his silver
hair falling forward as he stroked himself, watching. “You were made for
this.”
My real hand worked frantically over my length, matching the rhythm
of the toy as I thrust it deeper, angling it to hit that spot that made fireworks
explode behind my eyelids. The vibrations intensified, almost as if it could
sense I was close, building to a crescendo that had me crying out.
“I’m going to—” The words dissolved into a hoarse shout as the second
orgasm crashed through me. My entire body convulsed, muscles clenching
around the toy as pleasure more intense than the first time ripped through
me. It felt like being torn apart and put back together, like drowning and
being saved, like dying and being reborn.
I collapsed face-first into the pillows, gasping for breath, limbs shaking
uncontrollably. “Holy shit,” I panted, certain I was done, finished,
completely satisfied.
And then, impossibly, I felt it again—that stirring, that need, that hunger
rising from the ashes like some kind of horny phoenix.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groaned, rolling onto my back and
staring down at my cock, which was already hardening again despite two
earth-shattering orgasms. “What are you, the Energizer Bunny? Don’t you
ever quit?”
 Mr. Snuggles made a sound that was unmistakably sympathetic, his
purple eye regarding me with what seemed like understanding. He nudged
one of the glowing crystals from the box toward me with his snout, as if
offering a suggestion.
“Are you… helping me?” I asked incredulously. “Is this what dragon
friendship has come to? Sex toy recommendations?”
He made an impatient huffing sound, nudging the crystal closer.
“Fine,” I muttered, reaching for both the toy and the crystal. “But this is
officially the weirdest night of my life, and that’s saying something
considering I’m a reincarnated dark lord.”
The night became a blur of positions and fantasies, each more elaborate
than the last. Me on my knees, face pressed into the mattress as Azrael took
me from behind, his cool hand wrapped around my throat, squeezing just
enough to make my vision blur. Wes beneath me, his cock in my mouth
while Cole whispered filthy encouragements in my ear. All three of them
taking turns, using every part of me until I was nothing but sensation.
In reality, I tried every position I could manage alone—on my back, on
my knees, on my side, sitting up against the headboard. The toy seemed to
have a mind of its own, changing its vibration patterns and intensity to
match my increasingly desperate needs. I lost count of how many times I
came, each orgasm more intense than the last until pleasure and pain
blurred together into something transcendent.
My throat was raw from moaning, my muscles burning from exertion,
my sheets a disaster zone of sweat and other fluids. And still my body
demanded more, insatiable in its hunger, relentless in its pursuit of pleasure.
Through it all, Mr. Snuggles remained a strangely attentive presence,
sometimes watching with that unnerving intelligence, sometimes curled up
beside me as if offering comfort, occasionally nudging different items from
the box toward me as if making suggestions. During a brief moment of
clarity between rounds, I noticed he’d somehow managed to push a water
cup closer to me—thoughtful in a way that only made the situation more
surreal.
It wasn’t until the first pale light of dawn began to filter through my
window that my body finally, mercifully, decided it had had enough. The
last orgasm ripped through me with such force that I actually blacked out
for a moment, coming to with the toy still buried inside me and my chest
heaving with exhausted breaths.
 “Holy shit,” I whispered to the ceiling, my voice raw from hours of
uninhibited moaning. “Is this what being a demon is like? Because if so,
I’m never going to get anything done. I’ll be too busy… doing myself.”
Mr. Snuggles had retreated to the foot of the bed sometime during my
final release, giving me at least the illusion of privacy as I came back to my
senses. With a groan that was equal parts satisfaction and discomfort, I
dragged myself to the bathroom on shaky legs, feeling like I’d just run a
marathon while simultaneously being hit by a truck. Parts of me I’d never
paid much attention to before were making their existence very known,
sending little aftershocks of pleasure-pain through me with every
movement.
The shower was blissfully hot, washing away the evidence of my night
of self-discovery. As I cleaned up, I couldn’t help but marvel at this body’s
capacity for pleasure. Was this normal for demons? Did they all have this
kind of stamina, this ability to experience multiple intense orgasms without
needing recovery time? If so, it explained a lot about Azrael’s tightly wound
demeanor. The poor man was probably in a constant state of frustrated
arousal.
That thought led to other, more dangerous ones. If this was how intense
it felt with toys and fantasies, what would it be like with the real thing?
With Azrael’s actual hands on me, his actual body inside me? The idea was
enough to make my recently sated body stir with renewed interest, despite
hours of the most intense pleasure I’d ever experienced.
“Down, boy,” I muttered, turning the shower to cold. “We’ve got a
kingdom to run. Can’t spend all day thinking about ravishing the butler, no
matter how ravishable he might be.”
Once clean, I pulled on the ridiculous sleepwear again, too exhausted to
look for alternatives. The shorts and tank clung to my still-damp skin like a
second skin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. If Azrael saw
me in this, he’d either spontaneously combust or finally act on whatever
was simmering between us. Either way, tomorrow’s problem.
I changed the sheets (a skill I’d thankfully mastered during my college
years), hid the box of toys in the back of my wardrobe, and collapsed back
into bed just as the first rays of sun crept through my window.
To my surprise, Mr. Snuggles was still there, curled up at the foot of the
bed. He’d been so quiet during my cleanup that I’d assumed he’d finally
left to do whatever dragons do when they’re not watching their masters
engage in marathon sessions of self-pleasure.
“You’re still here?” I asked, too exhausted to be properly scandalized
anymore. “Don’t you have some dark lord duties to attend to? Terrorizing
villages? Guarding treasure? Anything that doesn’t involve watching me
sleep?”
Mr. Snuggles made a soft rumbling sound that almost resembled a purr
and padded up the bed to curl against my side. His tiny body was
surprisingly warm, a comforting presence against my exhausted muscles.
“This doesn’t mean I approve of your voyeuristic tendencies,” I
mumbled, already half-asleep. “We’re going to have a serious talk about
privacy boundaries once I can feel my legs again.”
He made another purring sound, settling his head on my chest like the
world’s most contented cat. Despite everything, I smiled as I drifted off.
There was something oddly comforting about not being alone after such an
intense experience, even if my companion was a miniature dragon with
questionable respect for personal boundaries.
As I hovered on the edge of consciousness, my thoughts returned to
Azrael and the almost-moment we’d shared. Next time, I decided sleepily, I
wouldn’t let him pull away. Next time those crimson eyes met mine with
that unmistakable heat, I’d close the distance between us and find out if the
reality could possibly match the fantasy.

OceanofPDF.com
 24

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.”
Lord Whatshisface’s eyes fixed on the blade, his complexion now the
color of curdled milk left too long in summer heat. “We are noble houses,”
he protested, voice a hoarse whisper. “Protected by ancient laws and
traditions. You cannot⁠—”
“Another misconception,” Azrael interrupted, testing the blade’s edge
with his thumb. A bead of dark blood welled up, perfect as a ruby. “I can do
whatever Lord Lucien permits. And he has granted me considerable latitude
regarding those who show disrespect.” He licked the blood from his thumb,
savoring the metallic tang. “He specified only that I keep the screaming to a
minimum, as he requires his beauty sleep. A most reasonable request, don’t
you agree?”
Lady Afterthought began to weep silently, makeup tracking down her
face like black rain. Baron Nevermind remained frozen, only his rapid
breathing indicating his terror.
 “Now then,” Azrael continued, approaching Lord Whatshisface with
unhurried grace, a predator savoring the hunt. “Let us begin with the
fundamentals. Lesson one: the proper way to address Lord Lucien.”
What followed was a masterclass in controlled violence. Azrael worked
with the precision of an artist, the patience of a teacher, and the creativity of
a virtuoso. The first scream came when he demonstrated the effects of a
particular silver needle inserted at the junction of nerve clusters beneath
Lord Whatshisface’s fingernail.
“Volume control, my lord,” Azrael reminded him, covering his mouth
with a hand that felt feverish against the noble’s clammy skin. “This is
merely the introduction. If you exhaust your voice so early, how will you
properly beg for mercy later?”
When he removed his hand, Lord Whatshisface whimpered, tears
streaming down his face. “Please,” he gasped. “Whatever you want⁠—”
“What I want,” Azrael corrected, “is for you to understand your place in
the hierarchy. For you to appreciate Lord Lucien’s mercy in allowing you to
continue existing despite your disrespect.” He selected another instrument,
this one designed to simulate the sensation of being flayed alive without
breaking the skin. “And for you to recognize the consequences of betrayal.”
By the time he had completed his lesson, all three nobles were
trembling, broken in spirit if not in body. They had confessed every detail
of their conspiracy, named every collaborator, revealed every hidden
resource. And they had sworn new oaths of loyalty, not with the reluctant
compliance of the coerced, but with the fervent desperation of converts who
had glimpsed the abyss.
Azrael rewrapped his instruments, rolled down his sleeves, and donned
his coat once more. Not a hair out of place, not a drop of blood spilled.
Only the faint flush on his pale cheeks betrayed the rush of satisfaction he’d
experienced.
It wasn’t enough. The rage still simmered beneath his skin, a low-grade
fever that wouldn’t break. The thought of them plotting against Lucien—his
Lucien, who he’d waited for through centuries of patient devotion—made
him want to tear the castle apart stone by stone.
“You will attend tomorrow’s equipment delivery,” he instructed the
three nobles, his voice deceptively calm. “You will show enthusiasm for the
project. You will publicly pledge resources to support the rebuilding efforts.
And you will report to me weekly on the activities of your fellow
conspirators, whom I shall be visiting in turn.”
He moved to the door, then paused, glancing back with a small smile
that contained nothing of humor and everything of promise. “Oh, and
should you entertain thoughts of fleeing Iferona—don’t. There is nowhere
in this realm or any other where you could hide from me. I have spent
centuries perfecting the art of finding those who wish not to be found.”
With that, he dissolved into shadow, leaving them huddled together,
forever changed by their night of education.
Azrael visited two more noble houses before dawn, delivering similar
lessons tailored to each recipient’s specific transgressions. By the time the
eastern sky began to lighten, he had neutralized the immediate threat to
Lucien’s plans and established a network of informants among the formerly
resistant nobility.
A productive night, by any measure.
As Azrael withdrew from the last lord’s estate, flowing through the
night as living shadow, his thoughts returned inevitably to Lucien. The
night’s interrogations had provided only temporary distraction from the
memory that had been tormenting him since dinner—Lucien’s lips parting
slightly as he sipped his wine, the flash of pink tongue as he licked a drop
from his lower lip, the way his silver-white hair caught the candlelight as he
leaned forward to make a point.
Azrael had noticed the changes in his master’s behavior over the past
weeks. The lingering glances, the slight catch in his breath whenever Azrael
stood too close, the way his pupils dilated when their hands accidentally
touched. Tonight at dinner, the signs had been unmistakable—Lucien’s
pulse visibly quickening when Azrael leaned in to refill his glass, the subtle
shift in his scent indicating arousal, the way he’d watched Azrael’s hands
with fascination bordering on hunger.
His master wanted him. The realization was both intoxicating and
maddening.
For centuries, Azrael had served with perfect devotion, never allowing
himself to fully acknowledge the deeper nature of his feelings. He had
always desired Lucien—from the moment of his creation, that desire had
been intertwined with his devotion like vines sharing the same trellis. But
he had contained it, channeled it into service, into the meticulous
preservation of his master’s form, into the violent elimination of anyone
who dared disrespect him.
But since Lucien’s awakening, something had changed. This new
version of his master—kind, vibrant, compassionate—had intensified
desires Azrael had always harbored but never fully permitted himself to
express. What had once been a manageable hunger now threatened to
devour him whole.
The memory of their almost-moment in Lucien’s chambers before
dinner resurfaced with painful clarity. Standing so close that a mere inch
separated them, Lucien’s scent filling his senses, those blue eyes dropping
to Azrael’s mouth with unmistakable intent. Had the clock not chimed at
that precise moment, what might have happened?
The thought sent a surge of heat through Azrael’s incorporeal form,
temporarily disrupting his shadow state. He paused, hovering above the
sleeping city, forcing himself to regain control. Such lapses were
unacceptable. Dangerous. A butler did not act on his desire for his master.
Did not imagine claiming those perfect lips, pressing that luminous body
against the nearest surface, making him cry out in pleasure rather than just
surprise.
Yet the images came unbidden, more vivid and demanding with each
passing day. Especially after tonight’s dinner, where Lucien had been so
responsive to his proximity, so affected by his touch. The scent of his
master’s arousal had been subtle but unmistakable, growing stronger
throughout the evening until it took all of Azrael’s centuries of discipline
not to act on it.
He resumed his journey toward the Dark Citadel, his form flowing
faster now, driven by an urgency he refused to acknowledge. He needed to
check on Lucien, to ensure he was resting comfortably. That was all. Just
the normal concern of a devoted butler for his master’s well-being.
The lie was so transparent he didn’t bother completing the thought.
As he flowed back toward the Dark Citadel, Azrael reflected on the
night’s activities. The “educational sessions” with the nobles should have
left him satisfied, centered, fulfilled as they always had in the past. Violence
done in Lucien’s name had been his primary source of pleasure for
centuries—the quickened pulse, the heightened senses, the rush of
accomplishment as fear blossomed in his victims’ eyes.
 Yet tonight, even as he extracted screams from Lord Whatshisface, even
as he watched terror spread across Lady Afterthought’s face, even as he
methodically broke their resistance and reshaped their loyalty, something
was missing. The satisfaction was hollow, a pale shadow of what it once
had been.
Because now his other hunger had grown too powerful to be ignored.
The desire that had always simmered beneath his devotion had boiled over,
consuming his thoughts, clouding his judgment, creating vulnerabilities
where none had existed before.
Most concerning of all, it was intensifying beyond his ability to control.
Each day brought new awareness of his lord’s physical form—the graceful
movement of those slender hands that Azrael had preserved through
centuries of careful maintenance, the curve of those perfect lips when he
smiled, the way silver-white hair fell across his forehead when he was deep
in thought.
When Lucien had emerged from his bath that first night after
awakening, water droplets clinging to his alabaster skin, Azrael had
experienced a momentary lapse in his perfect composure—a hitch in his
breathing, a tightening in his chest, a heat that pooled low in his abdomen.
He had ruthlessly suppressed these reactions, as he always had, attributing
them to concern for his master’s well-being after such a long dormancy.
But the symptoms had persisted, worsened. Each casual touch, each
smile, each moment of proximity now triggered responses that Azrael could
no longer fully control or conceal. And then there were the dreams—visions
that had haunted him for centuries but now refused to be banished upon
waking. Dreams of Lucien in his arms, of pale skin against his own, of blue
eyes darkened with an emotion Azrael had always known but never dared
name.
As Azrael materialized in the corridor leading to Lucien’s chambers, he
caught sight of a small shadow melting away from beneath the door—Mr.
Snuggles dissolving into darkness. The dragon’s single purple eye fixed on
Azrael with a gaze that seemed almost… challenging.
Azrael paused outside Lucien’s chambers, straightening his already
immaculate appearance before quietly opening the door. The room was dark
save for the silver moonlight streaming through the partially open curtains,
illuminating the large bed where his master slept.
The sight that greeted him stole what little breath he needed.
 Lucien had cast aside the covers in his sleep, clearly affected by the
unusual warmth he had mentioned earlier. But it wasn’t this that caused
Azrael to freeze in place, every muscle suddenly rigid with shock and want.
It was what his master was wearing.
Gone were the modest silk pajamas Lucien typically slept in. Instead, he
wore the revealing garments Azrael had delivered earlier—those black
shorts that barely covered his essentials and the matching tank top that
clung to every curve and plane of his torso like a second skin. Though
Azrael had selected these pieces himself, had imagined how they might
look on his master’s form, the reality before him now was far more
devastating than any fantasy. The silver trim caught the moonlight, drawing
his gaze to places he had always forced himself not to linger upon but now
could not tear his eyes from.
One smooth thigh was fully exposed, the shorts having twisted during
sleep to reveal more than they concealed. The tank had ridden up, exposing
a strip of pale stomach that glowed almost luminescent in the moonlight.
Lucien’s silver-white hair was tousled from sleep, spread across the pillow
like liquid moonlight.
Azrael’s body responded instantly, a surge of heat flooding through him
so intense it bordered on pain. He gripped the doorframe, the wood
creaking slightly under the pressure of his fingers as he fought for control.
The scent hit him next—the unmistakable aroma of recent pleasure, of
release, of sexual satisfaction. It permeated the room, subtle but
unmistakable to Azrael’s enhanced senses. Beneath it was another scent,
one he didn’t recognize—something exotic and clearly from the void
realms.
His master had pleasured himself tonight. Recently. Extensively,
judging by the lingering scent and the deep, satisfied quality of his sleep.
The knowledge sent another wave of heat through Azrael, followed
immediately by a surge of possessive rage. Who had his master been
thinking of? Some fantasy figure? The thought of Lucien pleasuring himself
while thinking of anyone else was unbearable.
He should leave. Now. Before he did something unforgivable.
Instead, he moved closer, drawn by a compulsion he could not resist—a
compulsion that had been growing stronger each day, testing the limits of
his control, threatening to shatter his perfect service. Before he realized
what was happening, he was seated on the edge of the bed, his weight
causing the mattress to dip slightly toward him.
Lucien did not wake, merely shifted in his sleep, turning more fully
onto his back. The movement caused the t-shirt to ride higher, revealing
more of that smooth, pale torso that Azrael had spent centuries preserving to
perfection. The skin glowed with an otherworldly luminescence—an
enhancement he had carefully cultivated during Lucien’s long sleep, telling
himself it was simply to maintain the dark lord’s magnificence.
Azrael’s hand moved of its own volition, hovering inches above his
master’s exposed thigh. He could feel the heat radiating from the skin,
could see the faint blue tracery of veins beneath the alabaster surface. His
fingers trembled with the effort of restraint, every instinct urging him to
touch, to claim, to possess.
This wasn’t the first time he’d been tempted. Throughout the centuries
of Lucien's slumber, he had cared for his master's body with reverent hands,
always upholding the pretense of clinical detachment while his desire
burned beneath the surface. Each day since Lucien’s awakening, that
temptation had grown stronger, each day his control frayed further. The
battle between duty and desire had become a war zone in his mind,
casualties mounting on both sides.
Slowly, inexorably, his hand descended until his fingertips made contact
with warm skin.
The sensation was electric, sending a jolt of pleasure so intense it
bordered on pain through Azrael’s entire body. He inhaled sharply, his eyes
widening at the unprecedented feeling. Lucien’s skin was softer than he had
imagined, warm and smooth beneath his cool touch.
His hand moved, caressing the length of his master’s thigh with
featherlight pressure. The contact sent waves of heat through him, pooling
in his lower abdomen and causing a hardness to form between his legs that
was both familiar and more insistent than ever before.
Azrael leaned closer, mesmerized by his lord’s sleeping face. The long
silver lashes resting against pale cheeks, the slightly parted lips, the
vulnerable curve of his throat—each detail was perfection, each feature a
work of art that Azrael had admired for centuries but never fully
appreciated until these past weeks of torturous proximity.
An overwhelming urge seized him—to press his lips against that
exposed throat, to taste the skin he had only ever touched in the line of duty.
To claim Lucien in a way that went far beyond service or protection.
He bent forward, his face now inches from his master’s, close enough to
feel his warm breath. Azrael’s heart thundered in his chest like a war drum.
His body burned with desire, with need, with a hunger that had been
building for centuries, growing stronger each day until it threatened to
consume him entirely.
His lips hovered above Lucien’s, so close that the slightest movement
would bring them together. In that moment, Azrael wanted nothing more
than to close that infinitesimal distance, to taste what he had always desired
but had never dared claim.
Lucien stirred, murmuring something unintelligible in his sleep, and
turned his head slightly.
The movement broke the spell. Horror flooded Azrael as awareness of
his actions crashed over him like ice water. He was touching his master
without permission, taking liberties that went beyond any acceptable
boundary, contemplating acts that would constitute the gravest betrayal of
trust.
He jerked back, rising from the bed with supernatural speed. His body
still burned with unfulfilled desire, the hardness between his legs painful in
its intensity. Shame and confusion warred within him, alongside a hunger
that refused to be denied.
Lucien shifted again, showing signs of waking. Azrael froze, unable to
compose himself, unable to mask the evidence of his inappropriate desire.
For the first time in centuries of perfect service, he fled.
Moving with preternatural speed, he slipped from the chamber and
down the corridor to his own quarters. Once inside, he leaned against the
closed door, his breath coming in ragged gasps. What had he done? What
had he almost done?
As his racing thoughts slowed, a disturbing realization began to take
shape—one he had been avoiding for centuries. During Lucien's long
slumber, Azrael had made certain… adjustments… to his master's form. He
had reduced Lucien's height from an imposing six feet to a more delicate
five foot seven, refined his musculature from powerful to elegant, enhanced
the luminosity of his skin and the fullness of his lips.
At the time, Azrael had justified these modifications as improvements
that emphasized Lucien's natural beauty. But now, faced with the intensity
of his desire, he was forced to confront a terrible truth: he had not been
creating the perfect dark lord. He had been creating his perfect desire.
Unconsciously, he had molded Lucien to match his own
unacknowledged preferences—smaller, more delicate, more vulnerable. A
form that awakened protective instincts alongside possessive ones. A form
that fit perfectly against his own larger frame.
The realization sent a wave of shame through him, followed
immediately by another surge of that insistent, unfamiliar desire. The
hardness between his legs had not abated; if anything, it had intensified
with his disturbing epiphany.
He pressed a hand against the front of his trousers, hoping to somehow
quell the sensation, and gasped as the contact sent a jolt of pleasure through
him so intense his knees nearly buckled.
This was madness. He was Lucien’s protector, his most loyal servant.
These feelings, these urges—they were inappropriate, disrespectful, a
betrayal of his sacred duty.
And yet he could not deny them. Could not control them. Could not
think of anything but the feeling of Lucien’s skin beneath his fingers, the
nearness of his lips, the overwhelming desire to possess him completely.
Without conscious decision, his hand moved again, pressing harder
against the hardness straining against his formal trousers. The sensation was
both shocking and addictive, a pleasure unlike anything he had experienced
in centuries of existence.
He fumbled with the fastenings of his trousers, freeing the hardened
length that had become impossible to ignore. The contact with cool air drew
a hiss from between his clenched teeth, the sensation both relief and
torment.
His eyes fixed on the portrait that dominated his sanctuary—Lucien in
repose, eyes half-lidded, lips curved in that rare, perfect smile that Azrael
had witnessed so seldom during his previous reign.
The old Lucien had been magnificent in his way—cold, stern, ruthless.
A being of pure darkness who commanded respect and fear in equal
measure. Azrael had admired him, had served him with unwavering
devotion, had found satisfaction in executing his cruel commands.
But this new Lucien—this kind, compassionate, vibrant version of his
master—had intensified desires Azrael had always harbored but never fully
permitted himself to express. What had once been a manageable hunger
now threatened to devour him whole.
Without conscious thought, his hand wrapped around his length, the
contact sending another wave of pleasure through him so intense it bordered
on agony. His mind flooded with images of Lucien in those revealing sleep
clothes—the smooth expanse of thigh, the strip of pale stomach visible
where his shirt had ridden up, the way the thin fabric clung to every curve
and plane of his body. The memory of his scent, too—the unmistakable
aroma of recent pleasure that had permeated the room, telling Azrael that
his master had sought his own release not long before.
Had Lucien thought of him during those private moments? Had he
called Azrael’s name when pleasure overtook him? The possibility alone
was intoxicating.
Azrael had never allowed himself to indulge in such physical release,
though his body had experienced desire. His perfect control had always
extended to these urges, channeling them into service, into violence, into
obsessive devotion. But now, with the scent of Lucien’s pleasure still in his
nostrils and the memory of warm skin beneath his fingertips, his control had
finally shattered completely.
His body seemed to know what it needed, his hand beginning to move
in a rhythm that matched the pounding of his heart. Each stroke sent waves
of sensation through him, building toward something he could sense but not
define.
The memory of Lucien’s words days ago surfaced with startling clarity,
intensifying his pleasure. “You look different. The void food—it’s affecting
you too, isn’t it? You look… enhanced. It’s a good change. You were already
intimidatingly perfect—now you’re just showing off.” His master had
noticed him, had admired the changes in him, had found him perfect. The
praise echoed in his mind, each remembered word sending another surge of
heat through his body.
In his mind, it was not his hand but Lucien’s—those elegant fingers
wrapped around him, those sapphire eyes darkened with desire, those
perfect lips parted in anticipation. Lucien would whisper those words of
praise again as he touched him, would tell him how perfect he was, how
enhanced, how impressive. The fantasy was so vivid, so compelling that
Azrael groaned aloud, the sound echoing in the chamber like a confession.
 His hand moved faster now, the pleasure building to heights he’d never
imagined possible. The void food had enhanced his sensations too, making
each touch more intense, each feeling more acute. In his fantasy, Lucien
was not just touching him but worshipping him, admiring every enhanced
feature with reverent hands and hungry eyes.
The image shifted, and suddenly his mind conjured Lucien’s lips against
his skin, trailing down his chest, lower still until they reached the part of
him that now demanded attention with such insistence.
Azrael froze, shocked by the direction of his thoughts. This was…
unthinkable. Degrading to his master. He forced his mind elsewhere, trying
to focus on the night’s activities—the screams of Lord Whatshisface as the
silver needle found that exquisite nerve cluster, the satisfying terror in Lady
Afterthought’s eyes as he’d described what would happen to her estate.
But they offered no respite now. His body continued to burn, his length
pulsing in his hand, demanding attention. And despite his efforts, the
forbidden image returned—Lucien on his knees, those perfect pink lips
stretched around Azrael’s shaft, those sapphire eyes looking up at him with
a mixture of submission and desire.
“No,” Azrael whispered, but his hand betrayed him, resuming its rhythm
with increased urgency. The fantasy expanded, becoming more detailed,
more consuming. He could almost feel the wet heat of his master’s mouth,
the gentle suction, the teasing flick of his tongue.
Their eyes locked in his fantasy—crimson meeting sapphire—and the
imagined connection knocked the breath from Azrael’s lungs. The intimacy
of it, the vulnerability in that shared gaze, was more overwhelming than the
physical pleasure itself.
The pressure built within him, a coiling tension that demanded release.
His movements became more urgent, less controlled, his perfect composure
abandoned in the face of overwhelming need. His free hand braced against
the wall beside the portrait, his body leaning forward as the sensations
intensified beyond anything he had thought possible.
When release came, it was with a force that shattered his remaining
control. Pleasure crashed through him in waves, drawing a cry from his lips
that contained equal parts ecstasy and his master’s name. His body
shuddered with the intensity of it, his vision blurring, his mind emptied of
everything but the overwhelming sensation and the image of Lucien that
had triggered it.
 For several moments, Azrael remained frozen in that position, his body
trembling with aftershocks, his mind struggling to process what had just
occurred. Gradually, awareness returned—of his surroundings, of his
actions, of the evidence of his release now staining his hand and the floor
before him.
Horror and shame flooded him, alongside a lingering satisfaction that
only deepened his confusion. He had lost control completely, indulged in
acts that went far beyond inappropriate, fantasized about his master in ways
that constituted the gravest disrespect.
As he cleansed himself, Azrael’s mind returned to the disturbing
realization about Lucien’s modified form. He had shaped his master’s body
to his own unconscious desires, had created the very temptation that now
consumed him.
The evidence was undeniable. For centuries, he had reduced Lucien’s
height, refined his features, enhanced his beauty—all while telling himself
it was for preservation. But he hadn’t been preserving his master. He had
been creating him—crafting him to match desires Azrael hadn’t even
known he possessed.
A dark, unfamiliar pleasure curled through him at the thought. Mine. In
the most fundamental way possible, Lucien was already his. His creation.
His masterpiece. His obsession.
The fantasy that had driven him to completion still burned bright in his
mind—Lucien on his knees, those perfect lips stretched around him, those
blue eyes looking up with submission and desire. The image should have
horrified him. Instead, it sent another pulse of heat through his freshly
cleansed body.
He wanted more. Wanted to bend Lucien over his desk, to claim him
completely, to mark him in ways that would never fade. Wanted to possess
not just his body but his heart, his soul, his every thought.
These weren’t the measured devotions of a perfect servant. They were
the ravenous cravings of a predator, of a collector who had found the
ultimate prize.
As he dressed in a fresh uniform, Azrael’s reflection showed the perfect
butler—immaculate, composed, dignified. But beneath that polished
exterior, something had broken free. Something dark and hungry that had
no intention of being caged again.
 He told himself he would be more careful, but a deeper part of him
knew the truth. The hunger had been unleashed. The line had been crossed.
The clock chimed the hour. Lucien would be awake by now, perhaps
wondering where his butler had gone.
Azrael straightened his clothing, schooled his features into their usual
mask of calm efficiency, and prepared to face his master. The perfect
servant on the outside. The perfect predator within.
And as he moved toward Lucien's chambers, a single thought echoed
through his mind, drowning out all others.
Mine. Forever mine.

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 25

Wes & Cole

“F or the last time, I am not driving your ridiculous midlife crisis on

wheels to the cemetery.” Wes Sinclair crossed his arms, golden hair
falling across his forehead as he stared down his best friend since
childhood.
Cole Holloway merely raised an eyebrow, dangling the keys to his
recently acquired vintage motorcycle. “You’re just jealous because your
sedan screams ‘I’ve given up on life and excitement.’”
“My sedan screams ‘I don’t want to die before tenure,’” Wes countered,
though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Cole’s spontaneous
purchase of the motorcycle last month had been the most impulsive thing
his methodical friend had done in years—and secretly, Wes was glad for it.
The five years since Beau’s death had left Cole increasingly withdrawn, his
natural reserve deepening into something more isolated.
“Fine.” Cole pocketed the keys with exaggerated disappointment. “Your
automotive funeral pyre it is.”
They walked across the faculty parking lot as the late afternoon sun cast
shadows between the buildings. Around them, students hurried to evening
classes or headed off-campus, the university buzzing with the energy of
young minds—minds like Beau’s had been, bright and challenging and full
of possibilities.
“You’re thinking about him again,” Cole said, his voice softening as he
opened the passenger door of Wes’ sedan. It wasn’t a question.
“Five years today,” Wes said, sliding behind the wheel. “Hard not to.”
 Cole nodded, his tall frame folding elegantly into the passenger seat.
“Did you see anyone wearing his shirt today?”
Wes smiled at the memory. After Beau’s death, a group of students had
created memorial t-shirts with one of his more infamous quotes from a
heated classroom debate: “Just because it’s always been done that way
doesn’t mean it’s not stupid.” The shirts had become something of a
tradition among business and computer science students, appearing most
frequently during finals week.
“Two in my morning lecture,” Wes confirmed. “One of them raised his
hand and challenged my entire approach to competitive strategy. Reminded
me so much of him I almost couldn’t continue the class.”
“That quiet intensity,” Cole agreed. “The way he’d sit there formulating
his argument while everyone else was still processing the question.”
They fell into comfortable silence as Wes navigated through the campus
streets toward the highway. At thirty-five, both men remained fit and active
—Wes with his fencing, Cole with his rock climbing—their academic
careers flourishing despite the private grief they still carried.
“You didn’t book Giovanni’s this year,” Cole noted as they passed the
exit that would have taken them to the upscale Italian restaurant they’d
visited on this date for the past four years.
Wes’ hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “I thought we
might try something different.”
Cole studied his friend’s profile, reading the tension in his jaw. “This is
about what his roommate told you, isn’t it?”
“Tyler mentioned that Beau had talked about wanting to try that new
ramen place before he—” Wes swallowed. “Before the accident. Said he’d
never had proper ramen, just the instant packets he survived on during
finals.”
Without a word, Cole reached across the console and placed his hand
over Wes’ where it gripped the wheel. The touch was brief but grounding—
a reminder of the understanding that had deepened between them over the
years.
“Ramen sounds perfect,” Cole said simply.
Twenty minutes later, they were seated at a small table in Kintsugi, one
of the city’s authentic ramen restaurants. The space was intimate, with low
lighting and private booths separated by delicate wooden screens. Steam
rose from their bowls, carrying the rich scent of bone broth and fresh
ingredients.
“He would have loved this place,” Wes said, watching Cole arrange his
chopsticks. “Probably would have charmed the chef into teaching him the
recipe.”
“Then written a paper comparing the structural integrity of various
noodle compositions,” Cole added with a slight smile. “Remember his final
project connecting food science to business sustainability?”
Wes laughed, the sound drawing glances from nearby diners. “The
professor called it ‘disturbingly innovative.’ I still have no idea how Beau
convinced the cafeteria to let him experiment with their food supply chain.”
“He had that effect on people,” Cole said, his expression softening.
“You’d find yourself agreeing to his ideas before you even realized what
you were signing up for.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own
thoughts. Wes was the first to speak again.
“I saw him playing Enolyn in the library once,” he said suddenly. “Late
night, probably two in the morning. I was dropping off some books before
an early flight to a conference.”
Cole looked up, interested. “You never told me this.”
“He didn’t see me,” Wes continued. “He was completely absorbed,
surrounded by energy drink cans and notes. I almost said something—it was
against library policy to have food or drinks near the computers—but then I
saw what he was working on.”
“Iferona,” Cole guessed.
Wes nodded. “He was designing some kind of economic system for his
dark realm. Had spreadsheets open, reference books stacked beside him. I
stood there watching for maybe five minutes, and he never noticed. The
intensity on his face…” He trailed off, remembering. “That’s when I knew
he was LucienNoir. The Dark Lord everyone on campus was talking about.”
“I found out during his first semester,” Cole admitted. “He used his
username for his computer lab login by mistake. When I saw ‘LucienNoir’
on the monitor instead of ‘BMacbeth,’ I put it together immediately. The
infamous Dark Lord of Iferona was my awkward freshman with the
ridiculous name and brilliant mind.”
“Did you ever let on that you knew?” Wes asked.
 Cole shook his head. “I thought about challenging him to a raid once,
just to see his face. But it felt like invading his privacy somehow.”
“We should have,” Wes said softly. “Challenged him to a raid, I mean.
Maybe if we’d connected with him outside the classroom…”
“Maybe,” Cole agreed, though his tone suggested he didn’t believe it
would have changed anything. “But we didn’t.”
The unspoken regret hung between them—all the interactions they
might have had, the relationship that might have developed if they hadn’t
maintained the professional distance between professor and student, waiting
for graduation to bridge that gap.
“I keep wondering,” Wes said as they finished their food, “what would
have happened if we’d told him how we felt. If we hadn’t waited for some
arbitrary graduation date.”
Cole’s expression grew thoughtful, his long fingers tracing patterns on
the wooden table. “I don’t know,” he said simply, abandoning analysis for
honest emotion. “But I think about it too.”
Their friendship had evolved over the years into something that defied
simple categorization—deeper than friendship, not quite romance, but with
an intimacy that had only grown stronger through shared grief.
“We should get going,” Cole said finally, checking his watch. “Sunset in
forty minutes.”
They paid the bill and returned to the car, driving the remaining distance
to the cemetery in contemplative silence. As they passed through the ornate
iron gates, the setting sun bathed the grounds in golden light, lending a
peaceful glow to the rows of headstones.
Wes parked near the eastern section where Beau’s grave stood beneath a
young maple tree—planted by his parents on the first anniversary of his
death. As they walked the familiar path, Cole reached into his messenger
bag and withdrew a small package wrapped in simple brown paper.
“What’s that?” Wes asked, nodding toward the package.
“Something I’ve been working on,” Cole replied, uncharacteristically
hesitant. “I wasn’t sure whether to bring it.”
Before Wes could press further, they reached Beau’s headstone—a
simple marble marker that somehow seemed insufficient to commemorate
the vibrant life it represented.

Beau Adonis Percival Quixote Macbeth

 Beloved Son
“In one moment of courage, a lifetime of light”

Fresh flowers—lilies and blue hydrangeas—lay at the base of the

headstone, still vibrant enough that they must have been placed there within
the past day or two.
“His parents were here,” Cole said, kneeling to adjust one of the lilies
that had fallen askew.
Wes nodded, hands in his pockets as he studied the inscription. “They
never change the arrangement. Same flowers, same positions, every time.”
“I guess we all have our rituals,” Cole said quietly. “Ways of holding
on.”
“So what’s in the package?” Wes asked, nodding toward the brown
paper bundle Cole still held.
With uncharacteristic hesitation, Cole unwrapped the paper to reveal
two small figurines—a paladin and a ranger, hand-painted with meticulous
detail. The paladin stood tall and proud, golden armor gleaming, while the
ranger crouched in a ready stance, bow drawn.
“You made these?” Wes asked, taking the paladin figure with careful
hands.
“Three-D printed the base forms, then hand-painted them,” Cole
confirmed. “I thought… he would have appreciated the Enolyn reference.”
“They’re beautiful,” Wes said, genuinely impressed. “When did you
find time to do this? You’ve been swamped with that research grant all
month.”
Cole shrugged slightly. “Couldn’t sleep much this week. Painting
helped.”
Wes nodded in understanding. They both had their ways of dealing with
the anniversary—Wes threw himself into fencing practice until he was too
exhausted to think, while Cole apparently channeled his emotions into
meticulous artwork.
“He would have loved these,” Wes said softly. “Probably would have
asked you to paint his entire collection of gaming miniatures.”
“And I would have said no,” Cole replied with a slight smile. “But
ended up doing it anyway.”
“The Dark Lord had that effect on people,” Wes agreed.
 Cole carefully placed the figurines beside the flowers, arranging them as
if they were standing guard over Beau’s resting place. “The Dark Lord and
his would-be challengers,” he said softly. “Together at last, though not how
any of us imagined.”
“I logged into Enolyn last night,” Wes admitted. “First time in years.”
“And?” Cole prompted.
“Iferona’s in ruins. Raiders have stripped almost everything of value.
The AI maintains basic functions, but the castle is crumbling, the economy
has collapsed.” Wes’ voice held a note of genuine sadness. “Everything he
built, slowly being erased.”
“Like he never existed,” Cole said softly.
“No,” Wes replied with sudden intensity. “Not like that. Never like that.
He existed. He mattered. He changed us.”
Cole nodded, the emotion in his eyes matching Wes’ own. “You’re
right,” he agreed. “He changed everything.”
As Cole arranged the figurines with precise care, a strange sensation
rippled through the air around them. At first, Wes thought it was just the
evening breeze picking up, but then he noticed how the shadows seemed to
elongate and shift in ways that defied the angle of the setting sun.
“Cole,” he said quietly, “are you seeing this?”
Cole had already risen to his feet, his body tense as he surveyed their
surroundings. “Something’s happening with the light and air pressure.”
Wes watched in growing alarm as the space between them and Beau’s
headstone began to shimmer, like heat rising from summer asphalt.
“We should step back,” Cole suggested, though neither man moved.
The shimmering intensified, coalescing into a circle of light that
hovered above the grave. Within the circle, symbols appeared—complex,
flowing patterns that seemed to shift and change even as they watched. The
air hummed with energy that raised the hair on their arms and filled the air
with the scent of ozone.
“This is impossible,” Wes whispered.
“And yet it’s happening,” Cole replied.
The circle expanded, the light within it brightening until it should have
been painful to look at—yet somehow, it wasn’t. Instead, it felt inviting,
almost familiar, as if they were seeing something they’d always known but
never recognized.
 “It’s pulling us in,” Cole said as he felt the inexorable tug toward the
light.
Wes reached out, grasping Cole’s hand in his own. “Together, then. As
always.”
Cole’s fingers tightened around his. “As always.”
Neither man resisted as the light enveloped them, lifting them from the
solid ground of the cemetery into something vast and unknowable. Their
last sight of Earth was Beau’s headstone, the fresh flowers, and the gaming
figurines they’d placed there—a paladin and a ranger, standing guard over
the memory of the Dark Lord they had both admired from afar.
Then darkness. Followed by light.

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 Thank you!

I had so much fun writing Dark Service and especially our snarky
protagonist Beau/Lucien! But don't worry - his adventure in this fantastical
realm is just getting started. Book 2, The Butler’s Devotion is coming soon

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Dark Billionaire Romance

Dark Billionaires: Vegas

CHAINED BY FATE
READ THIS BOOK
One debt. Two hearts. A fiery clash of wills. Can love blossom amid the
chains of fate?

Andy Donovan

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that fate loves to play dirty.
Look, I never asked to be a damsel in distress. Hell, I’m not even a damsel
—just a guy with a knack for coding and a talent for finding trouble. But
when you’re drowning in debt and your business partner gambles away
your last hope, you don’t exactly have the luxury of choice.

Enter Matt Caine: six foot three of pure, unadulterated sin wrapped in a
tailored suit. He’s got more money than God and a proposition that would
make the devil blush. Sure, he could crush me like a bug, but there’s
something in those stormy eyes that makes my heart race and my wit
sharpen.
I should run. I should hide. But with my sister’s future on the line and my
own dreams hanging by a thread, I find myself drawn into his world of
luxury and danger. It’s a game of high stakes and higher temptation, and
I’m not sure if I’m winning or losing. All I know is, I’m in way over my
head, and the water’s rising fast.

Matt Caine

Matt has always been a man who gets what he wants. Whether it’s closing
million-dollar deals or acquiring the latest addition to his empire, nothing is
beyond his reach. But Andy is different. The young man with fiery spirit
and quick wit has ignited something in Matt.
From the moment Andy crashes into his life, all defiance and desperate
bravery, Matt knows he has to have him. It isn’t just about the debt or the
business opportunity; it’s about possessing that untamed spirit, about
feeling the heat of Andy’s resistance melt into passion under his touch. But
as Matt draws Andy deeper into his world of opulence and power, his quest
to chain Andy to his side might just be the shackle that chains his own heart
in the process.

Chained by Fate is a complete 180,000-word dark billionaire romance and

the first story in the Dark Billionaires: Vegas series. This high-stakes
forced-proximity story features a debt arrangement that evolves into
dangerous obsession, a fiery protagonist who refuses to be broken, and a
possessive billionaire who will stop at nothing to claim what he desires.
Expect intense power dynamics, scorching intimate scenes, and a
passionate battle of wills that gradually transforms into something neither
man expected. Content warning: contains violence, kidnapping, references
to past trauma, and possessive behavior. HEA guaranteed.

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Mafia Dark Romance

RUINED BY THE MAFIA KINGS

READ THIS BOOK
Three ruthless mafia kings. One omega. A dangerous game of possession.

The only thing more dangerous than being their prisoner is becoming their
obsession.

When a dying mafia don needs an heir, my omega status makes me the
perfect solution to his problem. His captives? Three alphas from one of the
most lethal mafia clans in the criminal underworld.

Anders Knight—whose ruthless dominance should make me run, but

instead has my omega begging to submit. Conall O'Reilly—whose deadly
charm promises pleasure even as it threatens to destroy me. Wyatt Slater—
whose lethal silence terrifies me, yet his touch feels like coming home.
Trapped together in a dungeon, these powerful men are meant to give the
don what he wants—an heir. But as my heat consumes me and their scents
drive me wild, I lose myself to the inferno of desperate need. These alphas
may wear chains, but they own every surrender of my trembling body.

In this game of power and revenge, there's only one rule: the strong take
what they want. And when they break free? They're coming for me. Not just
for the child I might carry, but because I've become theirs. And they'll tear
apart the city to claim us both.

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 Also by Zara Lee

THE BLOOD MOON CHRONICLE

MARKED BY ALPHAS
(Kai and the Stone brothers)
Book 1: Marked
Book 2: Claimed

BOUND BY ALPHAS
(Finn and the Sinclair Brothers)
Book 1: Bound
Book 2 coming soon

CAPTIVATED BY ALPHAS
(Eli and the Carmichael Cousins)
Book 1: Fated

TALES OF BEASTKIN
Steamy Omegaverse Paranormal BL/MM Romance

PRIMAL BONDS
Featuring Adam and Shiro
Primal Bonds 1
Primal Bonds 2
Primal Bonds 3
THE DEMON LORDS OF AETHORIA
Hot & Sexy BL/MM Fantasy Romance

A HEART DISGUISED
Featuring Darius and Robin
A Heart Disguised

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 About the Author

Zara Lee writes sizzling hot BL/MM PNR and Romantasy that pack a punch! Her stories feature
snarky, quick-witted protagonists who find themselves tangled up with dominant alpha males who
are equal parts protective and predatory.

Need shifters with ancient magic? Demon lords with supernatural swagger? Her signature style pairs
possessive heroes with protagonists who aren't afraid to bite back. Zara's books contain enough steam
to fog up your reading glasses! Expect intense chemistry, emotional connections, and heat levels
that'll make your e-reader blush.

When she's not writing steamy scenes that'll melt your screen, you can find Zara binge-watching
anime and devouring webcomics.

zaraleebooks.com

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