A sense of deep anger and disappointment echoed through his mind as the wind whipped through his hair. Norman chuckled - he was getting all too familiar with that emotion.

He plunged into the water, and the waves greeted him with a dark embrace. The first contact with the water was a shock, a jolt that seemed to pierce his very soul. The icy chill seeped into his bones, stealing his breath away. As the water closed in around him, Norman could feel the world around him begin to fade.

The last thought that crossed his mind was Arianna. He imagined the look of pain and disappointment on her face when she found out that Norman was gone.

The colors around him grew muted, the sounds of the world muffled, until all that remained was the icy water and the bitter cold that threatened to consume him. Darkness swallowed him, and Norman gave in. Their icy cold caress was a welcome relief from the blossoming pain in his leg.

Norman woke.

His first realization was that he was not wet. But... why should he be? He had not touched water in years.

The night sky was dark. He was standing near a circular stone embankment. A cold wind washed over him.

His second realization was that he was naked. But... why shouldn't he be? This is how he was born. This is how he had been all his life.

He heard a rustle in the woods. He turned to look toward the source instinctively. With steep vertical trunks rising high into the sky and then abruptly fanning out to form a dense canopy hundreds of feet overhead, the trees were unlike any he had ever seen. But... the trees were exactly as they had been for the last three months he had spent in this forsaken forest.

A short screech was heard, immediately followed by a mechanical whirring. Humans. Norman's confused mind tried to reconcile the sense of disgust that had emanated within him, but then he noticed the weapon he had instinctively pulled out.

A weapon he had never seen before... A weapon he had trained with since the moment he had hatched. As had his father and his grandfather. And the ancestors before him.

What he held in his hands looked like a spine. Ridged and bony. He held its polished hilt forward at an inclined angle to the floor, and the curved spine trailed upwards behind him. To the spine was attached an array of blades. Shaped not very unlike the feathers of a bird, the blades were tightly packed, making the weapon look like a sword with a jagged edge. But he knew the demonclaw could be so much more.

The weapon was heavy, but his hands didn't feel weighed down. They had no reason to be - at this point, the weapon was practically an extension of him. In fact, his own blood flowed through it.

His hands... His triple-hinged, triple-clawed hands. As they had been since the day he had come to this world.

As he weaved his way through the foliage, eventually he found the source. In front of him, a man stood. Clad in the dark suits that humans used to compensate for their deficiencies. Before him lay the smoking ruin of his companion, Raul'Drahar - who had fought with him for more than two hundred years. And now he had been reduced to a charred husk. Through his bonds, he tried to reach out to the other comrades. But they could also not be reached. Raging anger swelled within him, but he pushed it down. Such was not the way of the Khanate. "Wafaat rahaatieh" he offered to the void beyond the frayed bonds. "May death be divine."

His purpose came first. And he still had the element of surprise. He could still protect the Khatuun.

If he failed now, the Abyssal Khanate would be extinguished forever. And Waz'lhim could make sure that didn't happen. A thousand years of glory and history would not be obliterated by this pesky race of weaklings that kept multiplying like insects and had no respect for their domain.

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The human soldier's face was completely hidden. Three bright red streaks could be seen on his helmet arranged like spokes on a wheel. Norman realized with a start that he was familiar with the symbol. The Man was a part of the Irathian troop, which eventually became the Irvanian militia, which then transformed into the galactic armada, and eventually, after Irathor took on the mantle of the God king and established the Irvanian empire - it became the Protectorate. Norman knew what was going to happen. A part of him wanted to warn the human soldier. As he watched, the man relaxed his grip on his prehistoric assault gun to adjust his comms to relay the message to his team - "East perimeter secured."

But Norman also knew there was nothing he could do to prevent the outcome of this encounter. What he was witnessing had already happened and he was just an observer.

But he wasn't just looking at it. He could feel his chest - Waz'lhim's chest pumping. He could feel his body sweating, his anger, his rage. He was participating in an ancient battle. From the other side.

His attention snapped back.

These invaders had threatened the existence of the Khanate. They needed to be shown their place.

He felt his heart warming up. One of his hearts. He didn't feel alarmed, though. As he raised the daemon clan from within the shadows. The all-too-familiar visual overlays showed him exactly where his blades would hit. He was familiar with the suit. He knew where the weak points were. When he rotated his wrist, the spine of the weapon curled, and the moment he was satisfied with the orientation, red-hot blades shot out and impaled the warrior.

Footsteps of other humans approached. Acting quick, he picked up the man's comms and listened to them. As he stepped closer to the fallen human, he felt the dispatched blades snap back into their designated slots on the spine.

Over the next twenty minutes, weaving his path through obscure corners of the dense dark foliage, he slaughtered more and more of the human troops.

Suddenly, a burst of fire from the direction of the burrow alerted him.

He had been distracted. The enemy had already reached the barrow. They were going after the Khatuun.

While she was occupied bringing the next generation of the Khanate to life, the Khatuun was vulnerable. To attack her at this time was utter cowardice. But it wasn't like the humans had ever cared about honor.

Waz'lhim rushed towards the burrow. Five enemy soldiers had found the entrance and lead an assault in. He was still at an advantage though. None of these invaders knew the burrow as intimately as he did.

He made his way around the numerous hatches where the eggs were clustered. The enemy had not yet paid any attention to the eggs, they were too focused on the living, and that was their first mistake.

As the group of brave human soldiers descended down the spiraling burrow, their torches flickered as feeble beacons against the encroaching abyss. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay, and the silence was broken only by the labored breathing of the men and the drip of water echoing in the cavernous space.

A tall, heavily built man led the team forward at a measured pace, his eyes scanning the shadows with a keen, wary gaze. His comrades followed close behind, their weapons poised and ready.

As they reached the halfway point, the natural staircase began to twist and turn more sharply, the darkness deepening and the air growing colder. Their boots had been sinking deeper and deeper into the mud of the floor.

Suddenly, the invisible enemy sprang from the shadows, striking down the soldier at the tail end of the queue and dragging him away into the shadows. Their comrades reacted with a barrage of gunfire, but Waz'lhim had already disappeared into one of the numerous small lanes that connected with the main burrow, forming a complex maze.

One by one, the other soldiers fell too, their cries of terror echoed through the narrow corridors of the burrow. A few who attempted to pursue Waz'lhim into the side lanes were the ones to meet the most gruesome deaths. The demonclaw was never kind, but cruelty was a broad spectrum too. The leader fought bravely at the front, but he was soon separated from the rest of his team.

He managed to reach the bottom. Alone.

But just as the commander raised his gun to strike down the Khatuun, Waz'lhim was there behind him. His claw exploded out of the soldier's mouth and the fountain of blood washed over the queen of the burrow. Khatunn opened her deep violet eye.

Waz'lhim's work was done. He fell on his knees.

As she pushed out one final pulse through the web that connected all of her eggs, Waz'lhim heard the first cracks.

In the distance, he could hear the whirring sounds of more human vessels landing. Reinforcements were on the way.

But Waz'lhim feared nothing now. He could feel the first of the new generation emerge out of their eggs and connect their minds to the hive.

The queen raised up her chitinous body and uncoiled. Facing Waz'lhim, she raised a single claw and pushed it through his chest. Wyrmblood from her body flowed into him. His body welcomed the release. His muscles strengthened, his back arched, and after a moment of excruciating agony new limbs emerged.

Waz'lhim was officially a member of the Had'layakh - the elite, the Queen's own.

As more footsteps approached the burrow, the Queen turned towards the newcomers. Her jaw expanded, unfolding into four large petal-like segments lined with serrated teeth, and in a scream that tore through the silence of the night, she called upon her children to take arms.

Her newly hatched children emerged from darkness, every one inheriting memories, skills and expertise of their ancestors.

Waz'lhim raised his daemon claw, and roared to answer the Khatuun's cry. And with him roared the new generation of the Abyssal Khanate.