The Feast of False Glory

Kain Rivel sat at the head of a rickety table in Rivermist's square, the scent of roasted wolf meat wafting up his nose as he gripped his dual axes like they might bite him. The villagers had dragged him to a "hero's feast" after the shadow wolf incident, ignoring his protests that he'd done nothing but fall into a ditch. The axes—rusty, heavy, and utterly useless in his frail hands—rested across his lap, their weight pinning him to the bench. He coughed into his sleeve, earning sympathetic clucks from the crowd.

"This is torture," he muttered, glaring at the axes. His arms trembled just keeping them from clattering to the ground. The villagers had polished them slightly for the occasion, but they still looked like junk—fitting for a junk hero like him. Across the table, Marta piled his plate with meat and potatoes, beaming.

"Eat up, Kain!" she said. "A warrior needs his strength!"

"I'm not a warrior," he rasped, shoving the plate away. One axe slipped, thunking onto the dirt, and he scrambled to grab it, nearly tipping the bench. Tobin the blacksmith roared with laughter.

"Modest to a fault!" Tobin said, raising a mug. "To Kain, slayer of wolves, master of axes!"

The villagers cheered, clinking mugs. Kain groaned, hauling the axe back up. "I didn't slay anything! It was an accident!" But his voice drowned in the din. They'd latched onto a myth: Kain Rivel, the quiet invalid, secretly a dual-axe prodigy who'd saved them all. He wanted to scream. He couldn't even chop firewood without wheezing—how could he fight?

His eyes darted to the edge of the square. Mya Seraphine stood there, cloaked in shadow, her silver hair glinting under the torchlight. She hadn't joined the feast—thank the noodle gods—but she watched him, her violet gaze unblinking. That smile, sharp and unnerving, hadn't faded since she'd declared she'd "stay a while." Kain's stomach twisted. In The Blade of Eternity, Mya was a force of nature—beautiful, deadly, and meant for Leon Valtor. Now she was here, early, fixating on him.

"Kain Rivel!" a voice boomed. Old man Gorrin, the village elder, shuffled forward, leaning on a cane. "Stand, lad. We've a gift for our hero!"

"No, please don't," Kain whispered, but Tobin yanked him up. The axes clattered to the ground, and he stumbled, coughing. Gorrin thrust a leather belt into his hands—a crude harness with loops for the axes.

"For your blades!" Gorrin said, eyes misty. "Wear 'em proud!"

Kain stared at the belt, then at the axes. "I don't want to wear them. I don't want them at all!"

"Too humble!" Marta cried, and the crowd roared approval. Tobin strapped the belt around Kain's waist before he could protest, hooking the axes in. The weight dragged at his hips, pulling him off-balance. He wobbled, clutching the table, and the villagers applauded like it was a performance.

"This is how I die," he thought. "Crushed by my own fake legend." He sank back onto the bench, the axes clanking. The feast resumed—laughter, songs, and tales of his "bravery." He poked at the wolf meat, muttering, "You tripped too, buddy. We're both victims here."

A shadow fell over him. Kain's head snapped up. Mya stood there, silent as a ghost, her sword gleaming at her side. The villagers quieted, watching her with awe. She tilted her head, eyeing the axe harness.

"Fitting," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "A warrior's burden."

"I'm not a warrior!" Kain snapped, louder than intended. He stood, the axes swinging, nearly tripping him again. "These are a curse! I didn't ask for them—or this!"

She stepped closer, undeterred. "Yet they suit you. And that wolf lies dead." Her fingers brushed one axe's handle, sending a jolt through him. "Tell me, Kain Rivel. How does a man so weak wield such tools?"

"I don't wield them!" he said, voice cracking. "I can't! Look!" He yanked an axe free, holding it with both hands. It wobbled, dipping toward the ground. His arms shook, sweat beading on his brow. "See? Useless!"

Mya caught the axe as it slipped, twirling it effortlessly. "Useless," she echoed, her smile widening. "Yet you survived. That's not weakness. That's… intriguing." She slid the axe back into his harness, her touch lingering.

Kain flinched, heart racing. "It's luck! Awful, stupid luck!"

"Luck doesn't carve legends," she said, her gaze piercing. "But I'll find out what does."

The villagers murmured, enthralled. "She sees it too!" Tobin whispered. "He's destined for greatness!"

"No, I'm destined for a nap!" Kain shouted, but they ignored him. Mya stepped back, folding her arms, her eyes never leaving him.

He bolted upright, the axes banging against his legs as he staggered toward his shack. "I need to ditch these," he thought, lungs burning. "She's watching. The plot's breaking. I'm toast." He reached his door, fumbling with the latch—the axes caught on the frame, pinning him.

A soft laugh stopped him cold. Mya leaned against a nearby tree, her silhouette stark against the torchlight. "Struggling already?" she called. "A warrior should master his tools."

"I'm not a warrior!" he yelled, tugging free. One axe fell, thunking into the dirt. He kicked it, coughing violently. "Take them! I don't want them!"

She glided closer, picking up the axe. "No," she said, pressing it back into his hands. "They're yours. And so is my attention." Her smile turned predatory. "Rest well, Kain Rivel. Tomorrow, I'll test you."

Kain sank to his knees, the axes dragging him down. "Test me?" he wheezed. "I'm dead. So dead."

The feast horns blared on. Mya lingered, watching. His axe-laden hell deepened by the minute.