The Hero I Never Wanted to Be

Kain Rivel slumped on a rickety stool in Rivermist's square, mud crusting his trousers, a pair of rusty dual axes propped awkwardly against his knees. The villagers had thrust them into his hands after the shadow wolf fiasco, proclaiming them "fit for a warrior." They were heavy, chipped, and smelled faintly of mildew—relics from some long-dead lumberjack, probably. Kain could barely lift one, let alone both. Yet here he was, their reluctant hero, shivering under a scratchy blanket Marta the baker had draped over him.

"This is a nightmare," he muttered, glaring at the axes. His arms ached just holding them upright. The dead wolf lay nearby, its skull still impaled on that cursed rock from his tumble into the ditch. He hadn't killed it—gravity had—but try telling that to a village drunk on delusions.

"Oi, Kain!" Tobin the blacksmith roared, clapping his back so hard one axe clattered to the ground. Kain yelped, scrambling to grab it as Tobin grinned. "Those axes suit you! How'd you take down that beast with no weapon, eh?"

"I didn't—" Kain began, but a coughing fit seized him, rattling his frail frame. He clutched the second axe for balance, nearly slicing his own foot. Tobin laughed, mistaking it for humility.

"Look at him, modest as ever!" Marta said, shoving a bowl of broth into his hands. The axe teetered again. "Drink up, lad. You'll need strength to wield those!"

"I can't wield them!" Kain wheezed, broth sloshing as he juggled the bowl and the weapons. "I'm weak! I want to leave!" But the villagers were deaf to reason. They'd already spun a tale: Kain, the sickly recluse, secretly a dual-axe master hiding his might. Ridiculous. He'd nearly fainted hauling firewood once.

He glanced across the square. Mya Seraphine leaned against a cart, silver hair catching the light, her violet eyes fixed on him. That smile—sharp as her sword—sent a chill down his spine. She wasn't supposed to be here. In The Blade of Eternity, Mya arrived later, with Leon. Kain was meant to be wolf chow by then. Now, with these stupid axes, he'd caught her attention.

"Kain Rivel," she called, her voice slicing through the chatter. The villagers quieted, turning to her. She sauntered forward, cloak swaying, her sword tapping her thigh. "That's your name, isn't it?"

He nodded, one axe slipping from his grip again. It thudded into the dirt. "Yeah. Just Kain. Nothing special."

She tilted her head, eyeing the fallen axe. "Nothing special," she repeated, her tone teasing. "Yet you felled a shadow wolf. And now you carry dual axes. Curious."

"It was an accident!" he shouted, loud enough that Tobin flinched. "I tripped! The wolf died! These axes—they're not even mine!"

The villagers exchanged looks. Marta chuckled. "Oh, Kain, no need to play it down. We saw the blood on you—and those axes fit you like a glove!"

"They don't fit!" he snapped, hefting one axe with both hands. It wobbled, nearly toppling him off the stool. "See? I'm useless!"

Mya stepped closer, her boots silent. She crouched before him, close enough that he smelled steel and faint roses. "Useless," she murmured, grabbing the fallen axe with one hand. She twirled it effortlessly, the blade glinting. "Yet you survived. With these."

Kain shrank back, clutching the remaining axe like a lifeline. "It's luck! Terrible luck! I don't want this!"

She tossed the axe back to him. He fumbled, catching it by the handle—barely—and the villagers gasped in approval. "Luck doesn't kill wolves," Mya said, her smile widening. "Skill does. Or something deeper."

"Or rocks," he mumbled, but she ignored him. Tobin clapped his shoulder again, jarring the axes into his lap.

"See? The lady knight knows you're a natural!"

"She's not a knight," Kain hissed, then froze. Mya's eyebrow arched. He'd slipped—shown he knew too much. How could he explain knowing her role as a swordmaster?

"Not a knight?" she asked, her voice playful yet edged. "What am I, then?"

"A… traveler?" he stammered, sweat dripping. "With a sword. And… stuff."

She laughed, a sound both lovely and terrifying. "Clever. I like that." She drew her sword partway, flashing its edge. "I'm Mya Seraphine. And I think I'll stay, Kain Rivel. To see what those axes can do in your hands."

"No, please don't!" he whispered, but the villagers cheered.

"A swordmaster training our axe hero!" Marta cried, beaming.

"I'm not an axe hero!" Kain yelled, but they ignored him, dragging the wolf away for a feast. Mya's gaze pinned him like a moth.

He lurched to his feet, axes clattering as he stumbled toward his shack. "I need to ditch these," he thought, lungs burning. "She's early. The plot's off. I'm doomed." He reached his door, fumbling with the latch—one axe banged against the wood—when a shadow loomed.

"Running?" Mya's voice purred. She leaned against the wall, blocking him. "With weapons like those, you shouldn't hide."

Kain's knees gave out. He slid down, axes tumbling, coughing into his hands. "I'm dead," he rasped. "So dead."

She knelt, too close, her smile predatory. "Not yet," she said. "I'll make sure of it. You're too fascinating to waste."

Kain groaned. Feast horns blared. His axe-laden nightmare had just begun.