Chapter 2 - A Champion from outer plane

As sand scraped against his armour and hot wind pressed against his skin, Ananke did not move. An apparition drifted toward the boy — unseen, unheard. Its hollow eyes fixed upon him. Torchlight painted the boy’s face in restless gold. The tip of his nose lifted slightly upward. His mouth was small, the corners turned faintly downward. Ananke’s breath faltered.

No… it can’t be, he thought.

How can a cambion be my child?
But he has her face.
It could be a coincidence.
What if it isn’t? His heart picked up pace.

The apparition moved closer to the boy— but this time, it turned and looked directly at Ananke.

“It is your son…” a distorted voice found its way into his mind. A faint familiarity clung to the voice — not its tone, but its presence. It felt like something he had encountered before… something tied to memories he had buried too deep to name.

“Look at him…”

Ananke’s jaw tightened.

“Look at his face…”

His jaw loosened, his eyes grew heavy, and finally, Ananke did. With each passing second, the apparition’s voice grew louder, clearer— until the arena disappeared. Ananke found himself standing before a woman.

A dead child lay in her arms. Tears rolled down her face. Across from her stood Ananke with his axe raised high, tears carving lines on his own face. Before he could completely lose himself, Ananke severed the connection. The arena snapped back into place. The groaning of metal railings and the cheers of the spectators reached his ears.

Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He exhaled but didn’t realise he was holding his breath. The memory did not fade completely. A fragment lingered — the same unseen pressure he had felt in the arena, as though someone had reached into his past and turned the blade themselves.

The face of the woman…

Before anybody could notice, Ananke straightened his shoulders.

With a stoic expression, Ananke left the arena. He made his way to his quarters, his steps echoing in the corridors. Even though a huge area of the arena was covered by the battle pit, the interior was no less than a labyrinth. Quite a few times, he ended up turning the wrong way.

An hour later, Ananke finally stood in front of his quarters.

His right hand reached for a circular sigil engraved on the door. Ananke traced a few Infernus letters in the air and pressed the sigil harder than needed, and turned it.

His hand lingered on the hilt longer than necessary.
The strap gave way with a soft snap.
The weight of the odachi dragged against his shoulder before he eased it down, the tip touching stone first.
The metal rang faintly— tired, like him.

Silence around him should have brought relief.
Instead, questions lingered — about the boy in the arena, the voice within his memories, and why the past had begun to stir only now.

The bed groaned as he let his body flop onto it. A medallion rested on his blackened cuirass; half of it had melted away— only a blackened blotch remained. The other half bore a sun.

His hand reached the medallion. His fingers tightened around it.
Warm air escaped through his nose. A pulse of warmth travelled through the metal, brief yet unmistakable. Recognition.

With each passing second, his eyelids grew heavy until they finally closed. His fingers brushed the medallion’s melted edge. Heat crawled into his skin. The room faded. But the peace did not grace him. Instead, an old memory resurfaced…

————————————-

A sharp sting jolted his mind. His hand burned as if a bee had struck him. Ananke’s eyes snapped open. A bedbug crawled across his skin.
The little shit’s back was bulging.

He did not move. His gaze followed it as it crept toward his thumb. When it reached the joint, his fingers closed. A soft pop. Blood smeared across his skin. Disgust tightened his expression. With his eyes barely open, he dragged himself off the bed. After washing his face, he left his room.

A few moments later, he pulled open the inn’s main door.
A familiar warmth hit his face. Far on the horizon, two suns burned bright red.
He growls, laughs, and snarls across the street, which invades his ears. The scent of Sulfur filled his nose.

As he stepped out, a familiar sight greeted him. A butcher’s stall. The butcher gnawed on bone between transactions. The strips of meat hanging from iron hooks looked red— almost inviting.

What if I spent the rest of my coins on it? A thought appeared in his mind. His mouth watered as the taste returned uninvited. After a long minute, he tore his eyes away.

His feet carried him into an alley, passing the buildings made of black and grey stones. Soon, he reached a passage leading left.
Without hesitation, he turned left.

He always did.

The coffle traders lay ahead.

Chains rattled as fiends haggled. An old woman knelt by the roadside. She turned her gaze toward him, and he did not look away.
A moment later, he walked into the coffle pen.

Chains dragged across the stone. Iron collars snapped shut. Traders barked prices while chains rattled in rhythm. Haggling sounded closer to threats than bargaining. Laughter carried teeth rather than humour. Buyers inspected slaves like weapon inventory.

Ananke came to a halt. Dark circles lay beneath his eyes, and his face was drained of colour. Every face in the coffle pen was familiar to him— yet he examined each face carefully. Faces stared with bored hunger. He was not searching blindly. There was a face he hoped never to find — and another he feared he already had.

A fiend bared his teeth and whispered. “Why does he do that every day?”

Faces stared with bored hunger. “Madness, maybe.”

Teeth flashed briefly in shared mockery. Their words reached Ananke easily, sharpened by his Eldari blood. He did not react. He continued searching. The two suns on the horizon sank lower. Evening bled into the district.

Once again, his search yielded nothing. With a heavy sigh, he returned to the inn. The door had barely creaked open before the innkeeper stepped into his path. His eyes halted as he saw a fiend. His horns were cut blunt at the stump. Jade circled his thick neck. Rings weighed down every finger as he crossed his arms.

“Payment.” His tail thumped impatiently against wood.

The inn’s fire crackled louder than before.

Ananke forced his voice steady.
“Can I pay you later?”

A snarl flickered across his expression. “You are a week late already.”

He stepped closer. “Pay now. Or find another place to rot.”

Ananke lowered his eyes. Then stepped back outside. He looked back at the hilt of his greatsword. Heavy breath escaped his nose. Soon, he stood before a blacksmith. His horns curved forward while his hair was cut short. His hammer grip flexed unconsciously.

“What do you want, Eldari?” he spoke with his cranky voice.

“I want to sell this.” Silence followed as his hands touched the hilt of his great sword.

He unfastened the strap slowly. The scabbard slid down his back, heavy, reluctant.
The greatsword met the ground with a dull ring. Blacksmith’s eyes gleamed instantly. A pouch of coins landed on the counter.

“Shouldn’t I get more?”

“This is the right amount. Besides, you have no use for it anymore.” Ananke’s fingers lingered on the hilt for a moment longer.

“…Don’t.” A whisper reached his ears. The whisper carried no sound, yet it pressed against his thoughts like a warning remembered too late.
For a moment, he wondered if the blade feared separation more than he did.

Then he let go. He picked up the pouch and left. Ananke paid the inn owner.
The innkeeper unlocked the sigil and stepped aside. Ananke lay on his bed.

“I need work.”

A moment of silence.

Images of two fiends flashed in his mind.
A conversation resurfaced.

“We could work at the Grinder… loot corpses”

———————————————-

He was not sure when sleep began. Or when the whispers stopped.

Knock.

His body flinched. His eyes snapped open. Someone stood beyond the door.