The subordinate performance reviews had left Ragnar feeling a strange mixture of pride and profound exhaustion.
His new recruits were powerful, effective, and had a collective sense of self-preservation that made lemmings look cautious.
He was sitting on his throne, trying to figure out how to write a
"Don't Kill Yourself for Being Too Good at Your Job" memo, when Isabelle and Pixia approached him.
"My Lord," Isabelle began, her voice holding a new, unfamiliar weariness. "We have a request."
Ragnar raised an eyebrow. "If it's about getting better snacks, I'm working on it. The Goblins keep eating the supply shipments before they get to the kitchen."
"It's not that, my Lord," Pixia chimed in, zipping anxiously near his ear. "It's a matter of biological necessity. We… we require sleep."
Ragnar blinked. Sleep. He was a vampire now.
He didn't sleep, he entered a state of death-like torpor for a few hours, which was not nearly as restful as it sounded.
