Misunderstood Extra in a Twisted Tale

Kain Rivel stood at the edge of Rivermist's eastern woods, the dual axes gripped tight, their chipped blades catching the dawn's first light. His coughs rasped, his muscles burned from the last skirmish—scouts caught, their spears no match —but he'd held firm, sent them fleeing. Mya Seraphine stood beside him, her silver hair glinting in the early sun, violet eyes locked on him, love, pride, that wild spark he couldn't shake. Her whisper, her damn "unstoppable," pulsed in his chest, and he hated how it pushed him.

"Raiders," he muttered, scanning the treeline. A cough shook him, but he straightened, glaring at the axes. "Nobody trashes my turf."

Mya's smile flashed, sharp, warm. "Your turf," she echoed, stepping 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, peering east. The village stirred—bandits sharpened blades, villagers hauled wood—their chatter a low hum. "I don't need your goo!"

"Not goo," she said, her voice low, steady. "Truth." Her fingers hovered near his harness, her smile fierce. "You broke them, alone."

"Alone?" He growled, hefting an axe. It wobbled, but he swung it, coughing, pointing. "Damn right! Not letting clowns wreck this!" Her laugh, bright, wild, hit him, and he hated how it stirred, anger, want, tangled tight.

"You're mine," she whispered, pressing closer. Her hand touched his chest, warm, firm, her lips near. "No crowd, 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 catch!" 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 catch," she said, her voice a vow. "My guard, I love you."

"Love?" He scoffed, coughing, stepping back, glaring. "You're mad!" But her words, her faith, gnawed at him—this wasn't his fight, yet here he was—and he turned away, axes ready, mind racing. That surge from the fight, faint now, pulsed in his grip—what was it driving him toward?

The bandit leader jogged up, panting, a grin on his face. "Boss! East, movement, no gold yet! What's next?"

"Next?" Kain rasped, tapping the axe on a tree, it thudded, and coughed, steadying himself. "Track 'em! I'm not your lord!"

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

"Wall?" Kain growled, swinging the axe, coughing. "They ran! Say it plain!" But the leader chuckled—jogging off, signaling scouts—and Kain shook his head, gritting through the coughs. "Idiots leaning on me."

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

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

"No pet," she said, soft, fierce. "Mine." She grabbed his wrist, gentle, unyielding, pulling him close. "You're tougher than his crew, 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 guts!" A cough flared, but he stood tall, axes glinting, will blazing—nobody torched his mess.

"Guts?" Her laugh rang, bright, dangerous. "I'd take your guts over his shine." 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—soft, sharp. He spun, Mya's hand on her hilt, eyes narrowing.

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

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

"Ready?" He hefted both axes, coughing, grinning raggedly. "Let's keep my dump standing!" He hissed, "East! Quiet!" bandits creeping, spears low.

Twigs snapped—four figures—cloaked, no gold—a woman's voice, "Take him!" Not Leon's hired hands—raiders, greedy blades.

Kain roared, charging, the axe swinging, wild, fierce. The leader parried—sword 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.

"Take me?" he rasped, coughing, swinging again. The axe cracked her sword, stronger now, and she yelped, reeling back—eyes wide.

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

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

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

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

He sank to a knee, coughing, axes thudding, chest heaving. "Still here," he muttered, grinning, ragged. "No clowns ruin this!"

Mya dropped beside him, her hand on his face, gentle, fierce. "You guard it all," she whispered, love raw, her fingers warm.

"Guard?" He swatted her off—coughing—glaring—but smirked, damn it. "Crazy!"

"Crazy," she echoed—standing—her smile fierce—eyes glinting. "Yours."

He glared—coughing—axes glinting—rising—wiping sweat. "Maybe," he muttered—grinning—turning west—village steady. "Let's see." A glow—south—"Fire!"—Kain tensed—coughing—eyes sharp. "Not my mess yet," he growled—Mya's sword up—her grin wild. He hefted an axe—voice low. "Time to stomp it." She nodded—swift—and they ran—grit in their bones—no crowd—just them.