The death of a Khagan

The Khagan lay on his deathbed, such a death had not happened in well over a thousand years. Who would've believed that a Khagan could die outside of battle, or work? Yet, here it was, the unthinkable.

He had not been in power for more than a few years, and yet his body was already failing. He knew that with this death, however, his mind would ascend into the Hive. The Hive which kept all Khanates linked. Which held the stories and legends of home. More primitive beings would have called it a heaven or a hell. It was not so, it was a storage of all deceased members of the great Khaganate.

Somehow, Octavian knew that his chosen heir would be different. What he did not realise, was how different. As his frail body began to fail, his attendant fitted the jack. He was going in.

"I remember my childhood," he spoke aloud with a rasping voice. "The fields of green on the vast open Steppes. The Flash of a new star, the fall of the Gods. In their death, they gave us..."

His eyes flickered. Nothing. The attendant looked at the gathered Khans, and for the first time spoke. "The Khagan is dead, long live the Khatun!"