Misunderstood Extra in a Twisted Tale

Kain Rivel raced through Rivermist's northern alleys, the dual axes slung across his back, their chipped blades rattling with each step. His coughs rasped, his chest burned from the last fight—arsonists caught, their flames snuffed —but he'd held fast, sent them running. Mya Seraphine dashed beside him, her silver hair whipping in the wind, 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 steadied him.

"Scream," he muttered, ears straining for the cry—north, sharp, desperate. A cough doubled him over, but he straightened, glaring at the axes. "Nobody wrecks my patch."

Mya's smile flashed, sharp, warm. "Your patch," she echoed, matching his stride. 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, jolted him, but he shook it off, weaving through shadows. The village churned—bandits hauled buckets, villagers huddled—their fear a low buzz. "I don't need your sap!"

"Not sap," she said, her voice low, steady. "Iron." 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 trash takes this!" Her laugh, bright, wild, hit him, and he hated how it stirred, anger, want, tangled tight.

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

Kain froze mid-stride, 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 guard, I love you."

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

The bandit leader bolted up, breathless, eyes wide. "Boss! North, cries, no gold yet! What's next?"

"Next?" Kain rasped, tapping the axe on a wall, it thudded, and coughed, steadying himself. "Find 'em! I'm not your damn boss!"

The leader nodded, grinning. "Aye, boss! You're a rock, smashed those burners!"

"Rock?" Kain growled, swinging the axe, coughing. "They ran! Say it plain!" But the leader laughed—rushing off, shouting 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 cry, my Kain."

"Your Kain?" He spun, axe raised, coughing, defiant. "I'm not your pet!" Her look, pride, love, hit him, and he faltered, why'd she dig 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 lot, 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 spine!" A cough flared, but he stood tall, axes glinting, will blazing—nobody trashed his turf.

"Spine?" Her laugh rang, bright, dangerous. "I'd take your spine 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 wail broke through—north—high, raw. He spun, Mya's hand on her hilt, eyes narrowing.

"North?" Kain rasped, glaring at the alley's end—smoke lingered—faint now. "Who's that?"

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

"Ready?" He hefted both axes, coughing, grinning raggedly. "Nobody fries my mess but me!" He barked, "North! Move!" bandits rallying, spears up.

Cries grew—panic surged—three figures—ragged, no cloaks—a woman's voice, "Help us!" Not Leon's hired hands—villagers, trapped by flames.

Kain roared, charging, the axe swinging, wild, fierce. A beam cracked—fire blazing—he ducked, coughing—the axe clashing, wood splintered. The jolt hit, that surge flickered, his arm burned, and he shoved, hard, the beam falling clear.

"Trapped?" he rasped, coughing, swinging again. The axe split a plank, stronger now, and the woman gasped—eyes wide—pulling free.

Mya's sword flashed—cutting ropes—one villager stumbled out—her laugh wild. "Free!" she shouted, turning to Kain, pride blazing. "You're mine!"

"Mine?" He growled, coughing, a second villager lunging—he swung—the axe broke a crate, the surge pulsed—he grinned. "I'm me!"

The woman rallied—grabbing a child—Kain dodged flames, coughing—the axe arcing up—hitting a wall—debris fell—she bolted—sobbing—"Thank you!"

"Thank?" Kain rasped, coughing, standing tall. "Move!" The last villager fled—bandits cheering—water splashing.

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

Mya knelt, her hand on his cheek, gentle, fierce. "You guard it all," she whispered, love raw, her thumb brushing his lip.

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

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

He glared—coughing—axes glinting—standing—brushing soot off. "Maybe," he muttered—smirking—turning south—smoke curling. "We'll see." A rumble—south—"Smoke!"—Kain tensed—coughing—eyes sharp. "Not my load yet," he growled—Mya's sword up—her gaze steady. He hefted an axe—voice low. "Let's snuff it out." She nodded—swift—and they moved—grit in their steps