Misunderstood Extra in a Twisted Tale

Kain Rivel crouched behind a stack of barrels at Rivermist's western gate, the dual axes clutched tight, their chipped blades glinting in the dusk's fading light. His coughs rasped, his muscles burned from the last ambush—rogue spies caught, their daggers no match —but he'd held his ground, sent them scrambling. Mya Seraphine knelt beside him, her silver hair tucked under a hood, violet eyes locked on him, love, pride, that wild edge he couldn't shake. Her kiss, her damn "yours alone," simmered in his chest, and he hated how it fueled him.

"Spies," he muttered, peering through a gap. A cough rattled him, but he steadied, glaring at the axes. "Leon's circus is slipping."

Mya's smile flashed, sharp, warm. "Slipping," she echoed, leaning closer. Her hand brushed his arm, light, fierce, and Kain glared, shoving it off, but not fast.

"Quit it!" he rasped, coughing. Her touch, damn it, sparked him, but he shook it off, scanning west. The village buzzed—bandits patrolled, villagers whispered—their tension a low hum. "I don't need your sap!"

"Not sap," she said, her voice low, steady. "Strength." Her fingers hovered near his harness, her smile fierce. "You caught them, alone."

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

"You're mine," she whispered, pressing closer. Her hand touched his chest, warm, firm, her lips near. "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 haul!" 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 haul," she said, her voice a vow. "My core, I love you."

"Love?" He scoffed, coughing, shifting back, glaring. "You're nuts!" But her words, her faith, gnawed at him, and he turned away, axes ready, mind racing. That surge from the fight, faint now, pulsed in his grip—what was it pushing him toward?

The bandit leader crept up, whispering, sweat on his brow. "Boss! West, shadows, no gold again! What's next?"

"Next?" Kain rasped, tapping the axe on a barrel, it clunked, and coughed, steadying himself. "Watch 'em! I'm not your chief!"

The leader nodded, grinning. "Aye, boss! You're a trap, snagged those sneaks!"

"Trap?" Kain growled, lifting the axe, coughing. "They ran! Say it plain!" But the leader chuckled—slipping off, signaling scouts—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 game, my Kain."

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

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

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

"Nerve?" Her laugh rang, bright, dangerous. "I'd take your nerve over his glow." 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 whistle broke through—west—soft, sharp. He spun, Mya's hand on her hilt, eyes narrowing.

"West?" Kain rasped, glaring at the shadows—footsteps padded—quiet now. "More sneaks?"

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

"Ready?" He hefted both axes, coughing, grinning raggedly. "Let's crush 'em!" He hissed, "West! Silent!" bandits creeping, spears low.

Leaves rustled—four figures—cloaked, black—a woman's voice, "End him!" Not Leon's gold—killers, hired blades.

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

"End me?" he rasped, coughing, swinging again. The axe sliced her cloak, stronger now, and she yelped, reeling back—eyes wide.

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

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

The leader rallied—blade slashing—Kain dodged, coughing—the axe arcing up—hitting her arm—blood sprayed—she bolted—cursing—"He'll double it!"

"Double?" Kain rasped, coughing, standing tall. "Pay more!" The last assassin fled—bandits cheering—spears raised.

He sank to a knee, coughing, axes thudding, chest heaving. "Snagged," he muttered, grinning, ragged. "No harem plays 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 steady. "Damn right."

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

"Again," she said—a vow. "Together?"

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