Sleep was a concept Eastiel had abandoned days ago. If he slept at all, it was only when his body gave out and dumped him into unconsciousness.
Even then, it was never for long. Nightmares, or worse, dreams so sweet and too good to be true they were a special kind of torture, would jerk him back to the land of the wake.
In truth, asleep or awake made little difference for him now. His mother, Harriet, watched him cycle between two states in his endless waking hours. Either meticulously planning the crusade that would swallow the continent in fire, or staring blankly at the horizon in a silence so deep it seemed to swallow sound.
All for a woman.
Harriet was convinced it was her fault. She always was. She was certain some poison in their family's teachings had caused this.
The Edengold line never married humans. They were purebred Werelions, a point of pride repeated over generations.
