Misunderstood Extra in a Twisted Tale

Kain Rivel leaned against a weathered barn at Rivermist's northern edge, the dual axes resting against the wall, their chipped blades dulled by dust. His coughs rasped, his limbs ached from the last fight—Sera's retreat still fresh —but he'd held his ground, her harem nonsense crushed. Mya Seraphine sat nearby, her silver hair loose in the evening breeze, violet eyes locked on him, love, pride, that wild edge he couldn't shake. Her kiss, her damn "yours alone," echoed in his chest, and he hated how it stuck.

"Circus," he muttered, tossing a pebble. A cough doubled him over, but he straightened, glaring at the axes. "Leon's clowns can't touch me."

Mya's smile flashed, sharp, warm. "Can't touch," she echoed, rising to her feet. Her hand brushed his shoulder, light, fierce, and Kain glared, shoving it off, but not fast.

"Enough!" he rasped, coughing. Her touch, damn it, sparked him, but he shook it off, staring north. The village hummed—bandits sharpened spears, villagers mended roofs—their chatter a faint drone. "I don't need your clingy stuff!"

"Not clingy," she said, her voice low, steady. "Real." Her fingers hovered near his arm, her smile fierce. "You fought, alone."

"Alone?" He growled, grabbing an axe. It wobbled, but he swung it, coughing, pointing. "Damn right! No harem trash!" Her laugh, bright, wild, hit him, and he hated how it stirred, anger, want, tangled tight.

"You're mine," she whispered, stepping closer. Her hand pressed his chest, warm, firm, her lips close. "No harem, just us."

Kain froze, heat surging, rage, something softer, damn it. "Us?" he rasped, shoving her hand off, slow. A cough flared, but he held her gaze, gritty, unyielding. "I'm me, Mya! Not your loot!" Her closeness, her steel and roses scent, messed with him, and he gripped the axe tighter. "Back off!"

She didn't, her smile softened, fingers brushing his jaw, quick, possessive. "No loot," she said, her voice a vow. "My breath, I love you."

"Love?" He scoffed, coughing, stepping back, glaring. "You're cracked!" But her words, her faith, gnawed at him, and he turned away, axes in hand, mind racing. That surge from the fight, faint now, pulsed in his grip—what was it tying him to this?

The bandit leader jogged up, panting, a grin splitting his face. "Boss! Scouts spotted, east, no gold this time! What's next?"

"Next?" Kain rasped, tossing the axe onto the ground, it thudded, and coughed, steadying himself. "Check 'em! I'm not your lord!"

The leader nodded, saluting. "Aye, boss! You're a wall, broke that healer!"

"Wall?" Kain growled, picking the axe up, coughing. "She ran! Say it plain!" But the leader laughed—jogging off, shouting orders—and Kain shook his head, gritting through the coughs. "Idiots."

Mya lingered, her smile fierce, loving. "They see it," she said, her voice low. "That truth, my Kain."

"Your Kain?" He spun, axe raised, coughing, defiant. "I'm not your damn toy!" Her look, pride, love, hit him, and he faltered, why'd she burrow so deep?

"No toy," she said, soft, fierce. "Mine." She grabbed his wrist, gentle, unyielding, pulling him close. "You're tougher than his harem, than him."

Kain stiffened, her touch burning, her pulse syncing with his. "Tougher?" he rasped, shoving her back, not far. "I'm a wreck! He's got flash, I've got will!" A cough flared, but he stood tall, axes glinting, resolve blazing.

"Will?" Her laugh rang, bright, dangerous. "I'd take your will over his gleam." She stepped closer, her lips hovering, fierce, tempting. "You're enough."

"Enough?" He growled, coughing, but didn't pull away, not yet. "I don't need…" A rustle broke through—east—sharp, close. He spun, Mya's hand on her hilt, eyes narrowing.

"East?" Kain rasped, glaring at the trees—footsteps crunched—soft now. "No horses?"

"Spies," Mya said, her smile sharp, curious. "Not his harem." She stepped beside him, shoulder brushing his, warm, steady. "Ready?"

"Ready?" He hefted both axes, coughing, grinning raggedly. "Let's snag 'em!" He barked, "East! Quiet!" bandits creeping, spears low.

Twigs snapped—three figures—cloaked, no gold—a man's voice, "Where's he at?" Not Leon's crew—rogues, maybe.

Kain roared, charging, the axe swinging, wild, fierce. The leader dodged—dagger flashing—he ducked, coughing—the blade clashing, steel rang. The jolt hit, that surge flickered, his arm burned, and he shoved, hard, the man stumbling.

"Sneaky trash!" he rasped, coughing, swinging again. The axe grazed a cloak, stronger now, and the man yelped, reeling back—eyes wide.

Mya's sword flashed—one rogue fell—her laugh wild. "Trash!" she shouted, turning to Kain, pride blazing. "You're mine!"

"Mine?" He growled, coughing, the second rogue lunging—he swung—the axe clipped a shoulder, denting mail—the surge pulsed—he grinned. "I'm me!"

The leader rallied—dagger slashing—Kain sidestepped, coughing—the axe arcing up—hitting his arm—flesh tore—he bolted—cursing—"He'll pay you!"

"Pay?" Kain rasped, coughing, standing tall. "Earn it!" The last rogue fled—bandits cheering—spears raised.

He sank to a knee, coughing, axes thudding, chest heaving. "Caught," he muttered, grinning, ragged. "No harem sneaks this!"

Mya knelt, her hand on his face, gentle, fierce. "This," she whispered, love raw. "Enough." She kissed him, hard, deep—Kain jolted—heat surging—shoved her off—coughing—glaring.

"Warn me!" he barked—voice shaky—he'd leaned in—damn it. "Crazy!"

"Crazy," she laughed—bright—standing—hand near. "Yours, alone."

He glared—coughing—axes glinting—rising. "Alone," he muttered—smirking—turning south—Rivermist's glow faint. "Damn right."

A horn—west—Kain tensed—coughing—ready. "Back?" he growled—Mya's sword out—eyes locked—fierce, loving.

"Back," she said—a vow. "Together?"

He coughed—nodding—axes up. "My way, catch 'em!" charging—her beside him—gritty, no harem—just them.