Misunderstood Extra in a Twisted Tale

Kain Rivel sprinted toward Rivermist's western barn, the dual axes bouncing at his hips, their chipped blades glinting under a smoke-choked dusk. His coughs rasped, his lungs burned from the last clash—raiders caught, their swords no match —but he'd held firm, sent them running. Mya Seraphine ran beside him, her silver hair streaming loose, violet eyes locked on him, love, pride, that wild gleam he couldn't shake. Her whisper, her damn "guard it all," echoed in his chest, and he hated how it pushed him.

"Fire," he muttered, spotting flames licking the barn's roof. A cough doubled him over, but he straightened, glaring at the axes. "Nobody torches my mess."

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

"Cut it!" he rasped, coughing. Her touch, damn it, sparked him, but he shook it off, charging closer. The village roared—bandits hauled water, villagers shouted—their panic a loud hum. "I don't need your goo!"

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

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

"You're mine," she whispered, stepping in stride. Her hand grazed his chest, warm, firm, her lips close. "No crowd, just us."

Kain froze mid-step, 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 shield, I love you."

"Love?" He scoffed, coughing, pushing past, glaring. "You're cracked!" But her words, her faith, gnawed at him—Rivermist wasn't his burden, yet here he was—and he stormed toward the barn, axe in hand, mind racing. That surge from the fight, faint now, pulsed in his grip—what was it forging inside him?

The bandit leader raced up, soaked, shouting over the crackle. "Boss! West barn's blazing, no gold yet! What's next?"

"Next?" Kain rasped, slamming the axe onto a barrel, it thudded, and coughed, steadying himself. "Douse it! I'm not your chief!"

The leader nodded, grinning. "Aye, boss! You're a storm, stopped those raiders!"

"Storm?" Kain growled, swinging the axe, coughing. "They fled! Say it plain!" But the leader laughed—rushing off, barking orders—and Kain shook his head, gritting through the coughs. "Idiots piling on me."

Mya lingered, her smile fierce, loving. "They see it," she said, her voice low. "That fire, 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 dig so deep when he didn't sign up 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 patch.

"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 crash broke through—west—loud, sharp. He spun, Mya's hand on her hilt, eyes narrowing.

"West?" Kain rasped, glaring at the barn—flames roared—timbers groaned. "More fire?"

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

"Ready?" He hefted both axes, coughing, grinning raggedly. "Nobody fries my turf!" He barked, "West! Now!" bandits rallying, buckets sloshing.

Flames surged—smoke thickened—four figures—cloaked, no gold—a man's voice, "Torch it all!" Not Leon's hired hands—arsonists, greedy blades.

Kain roared, charging, the axe swinging, wild, fierce. The leader swung—a torch blazing—he ducked, coughing—the axe clashing, wood splintered. The jolt hit, that surge flickered, his arm burned, and he shoved, hard, the man tumbling.

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

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

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

The leader rallied—torch thrusting—Kain dodged, coughing—the axe arcing up—hitting his arm—flames fell—he bolted—cursing—"He'll pay extra!"

"Extra?" Kain rasped, coughing, standing tall. "Pay better!" The last arsonists fled—bandits cheering—water splashing.

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

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

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

"Crazy," she echoed—rising—her smile fierce—eyes burning. "Yours."

He glared—coughing—axes glinting—standing—wiping sweat. "Maybe," he muttered—grinning—turning east—flames dying. "We'll see." A shout—north—"Help!"—Kain tensed—coughing—eyes narrowing. "Not my mess yet," he growled—Mya's sword up—her grin wild. He hefted an axe—voice low. "Time to fix it." She nodded—swift—and they dashed