Misunderstood Extra in a Twisted Tale

Kain Rivel perched atop a rickety watchtower at Rivermist's northern ridge, the dual axes slung across his back, their chipped blades catching the moon's pale glow. His coughs rasped, his joints creaked from the last scrap—assassins caught, their blades no match —but he'd held fast, sent them running. Mya Seraphine crouched beside him, her silver hair glinting under the night sky, violet eyes locked on him, love, pride, that wild fire he couldn't dodge. Her kiss, her damn "yours alone," pulsed in his chest, and he hated how it drove him.

"Sneaks," he muttered, squinting north. A cough shook him, but he steadied, gripping the tower's edge. "Leon's circus is scrambling."

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

"Drop it!" he rasped, coughing. Her touch, damn it, jolted him, but he shook it off, peering into the dark. The village slept—bandits guarded posts, villagers snored—their silence a tense hum. "I don't need your goo!"

"Not goo," she said, her voice low, steady. "Power." Her fingers hovered near his arm, her smile fierce. "You snagged them, alone."

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

"You're mine," she whispered, leaning in. Her hand touched 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 take!" 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 take," she said, her voice a vow. "My spark, I love you."

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

The bandit leader climbed up, whispering, sweat on his brow. "Boss! North, torches, no gold yet! What's next?"

"Next?" Kain rasped, tapping the axe on the rail, it clunked, and coughed, steadying himself. "Track 'em! I'm not your boss!"

The leader grinned, nodding. "Aye, boss! You're a snare, nabbed those killers!"

"Snare?" Kain growled, swinging the axe, coughing. "They fled! Say it straight!" But the leader chuckled—sliding down, 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 move, my Kain."

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

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

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

"Bite?" Her laugh rang, bright, dangerous. "I'd take your bite 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—north—soft, sharp. He spun, Mya's hand on her hilt, eyes narrowing.

"North?" Kain rasped, glaring at the dark—torches flickered—distant now. "No horns?"

"Scouts," 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 hit 'em!" He hissed, "North! Quiet!" bandits creeping, spears low.

Twigs cracked—three figures—cloaked, no gold—a man's voice, "Find him!" Not Leon's harem—scouts, hired eyes.

Kain roared, leaping down, the axe swinging, wild, fierce. The leader dodged—spear jabbing—he ducked, coughing—the axe clashing, wood splintered. The jolt hit, that surge flickered, his arm burned, and he shoved, hard, the man tumbling.

"Find me?" he rasped, coughing, swinging again. The axe cracked the spear, stronger now, and the man yelped, reeling back—eyes wide.

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

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

The leader rallied—spear thrusting—Kain sidestepped, coughing—the axe arcing up—hitting his chest—mail tore—he bolted—cursing—"He'll triple it!"

"Triple?" Kain rasped, coughing, standing tall. "Pay better!" The last scout fled—bandits cheering—spears raised.

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

Mya dropped beside him, 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 firm. "Damn right."

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

"More," she said—a vow. "Together?"

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