Misunderstood Extra in a Twisted Tale

Kain Rivel woke to the sound of metal scraping wood—slow, deliberate, right outside his shack. His eyes snapped open, heart hammering as he fumbled for the dual axes still strapped to the harness beside his cot. He'd barely slept, haunted by Mya Seraphine's promise to "train" him. In The Blade of Eternity, her training turned Leon into a legend—grueling sparring, monster hunts, feats of endurance. Kain wasn't Leon. He was a frail extra who'd die swinging these stupid axes once too often.

The scraping stopped. Silence stretched, then a knock—sharp, insistent. "Kain Rivel," Mya's voice purred through the door. "Time to begin."

"No," he whispered, clutching an axe. "I'm sick. I'm dead. Go away." But the door creaked open, and there she stood—silver hair loose, sword in hand, her violet eyes glinting with that unnerving smile.

"You're awake," she said, stepping inside. "Good. We start now."

"I'm not awake!" he yelped, scrambling back. The axes clattered, dragging him off the cot. He hit the floor, coughing into his sleeve. "See? I'm a mess! I can't train!"

She tilted her head, unfazed. "A mess who blocked my sword. Get up." She grabbed the harness, hauling him to his feet with ease. The axes swung, nearly clipping his shins.

"Blocked it by accident!" he rasped, flailing. "I'm not a fighter! I'm—" Another cough cut him off, doubling him over. Mya waited, patient as a predator.

"Outside," she said, nudging him toward the door. "The village wants to watch."

Kain's stomach sank. "Watch me die?" But she shoved him out, and he stumbled into the dawn light. A crowd had already gathered near the square—villagers perched on barrels, kids clutching sticks, all buzzing with excitement. Tobin waved, grinning.

"There's our axe hero!" he shouted. "Show her what you've got!"

"I've got nothing!" Kain yelled, but Mya pushed him toward a cleared patch of dirt. She'd set up a row of wooden stakes—targets, he realized, his dread spiking.

"Strike them," she said, handing him an axe from the harness. "One clean hit."

Kain stared at the axe, its weight already straining his wrist. "Clean hit? I can't even hold this!" He lifted it with both hands, arms shaking, and swung at the nearest stake. The blade grazed it, spinning from his grip and thudding into the dirt five feet away. He staggered, the second axe pulling him off-balance.

The crowd cheered. "Look at that power!" Marta cried.

"Power?" Kain wheezed, retrieving the axe. "It flew away! That's failure!"

Mya circled him, her smile sharpening. "Failure doesn't move a blade. Try again."

"No!" he protested, but she tossed the axe back, forcing him to catch it. He fumbled, nearly dropping both. The villagers chanted his name, and he groaned, swinging again. This time, the axe hit the stake—barely—embedding an inch before he lost his grip. He tripped, landing face-first as the second axe clattered free.

"Brilliant!" Gorrin shouted. "He's pacing himself!"

"I'm dying!" Kain coughed, spitting dirt. He crawled to his knees, glaring at Mya. "See? I told you—I'm useless!"

She knelt beside him, brushing dirt from his shoulder. "Useless," she murmured, her touch lingering. "Yet the stake's marked. You're learning."

"Learning to fall!" he snapped, but she stood, pulling him up. Her strength dwarfed his, and he hated how effortless she made it look.

"Now," she said, drawing her sword. "Defend."

Kain's blood froze. "Again? You'll kill me!" He raised both axes, their weight dragging his arms down. Mya stepped forward—not striking, just pressing her blade against his. The metal clinked, and he stumbled back, coughing.

"Hold it," she said, her voice calm but firm. "Feel the weight."

"I feel my doom!" he rasped, but he gripped the axes tighter, arms trembling. She pushed harder, and he slid back, boots digging into the dirt. The villagers gasped, mistaking it for a standoff.

"He's matching her!" Tobin roared.

"I'm losing!" Kain shouted, but Mya eased off, sheathing her sword.

"Enough," she said, her eyes narrowing. "You're weak. But there's something there."

"There's nothing!" he pleaded, dropping the axes. They thudded into the dirt, and he sank beside them, coughing violently. "Leave me alone!"

She crouched, her face inches from his. "No," she said softly. "You're mine to shape." Her fingers brushed his cheek, cold and possessive. "Tomorrow, we hunt."

"Hunt?" Kain's voice cracked. "Hunt what?"

She stood, turning away. "You'll see." Her laugh echoed as she walked off, leaving him sprawled in the dirt.

The villagers swarmed him, praising his "progress." "Held off a swordmaster!" Marta said, beaming. "Those axes'll sing yet!"

"They'll sing my funeral!" Kain wheezed, hauling himself up. The axes dangled, mockingly heavy. He staggered back to his shack, slamming the door. "Hunt?" he muttered, sinking against the wall. "She's insane. I need to run."

He peeked out the window. Mya lingered near the square, sharpening her sword, her eyes flicking toward his shack. She knew he'd try. "She's watching," he thought, heart sinking. "I'm trapped."

He unbuckled the harness, letting the axes fall. "I'll ditch these," he resolved. "Sneak out tonight. She can't train a ghost." But his cough flared, rattling his chest, and he slumped, exhausted.

Outside, a villager hummed a tune about "Kain the Axe Lord." Mya's sharpening grew louder, rhythmic, like a promise. Kain buried his face in his hands. "She's going to hunt me," he whispered. "And I can't even run."

The axes glinted in the corner. His escape plan—and his doom—loomed closer with every breath.