The Edge I Won’t Fall

Kain Rivel sat on a crate in Rivermist's battered square, the dual axes propped beside him like stubborn shadows. The air stank of blood and smoke, remnants of Leon Valtor's failed assault. His arm throbbed where the knight's blade had nicked him, his coughs rattled his chest, but he'd held—defied the golden hero and lived. Mya Seraphine lingered nearby, her silver hair tangled with dust, her violet eyes watching him—love, pride, that edge he couldn't dodge. Her touch—her damn kiss—still buzzed on his skin, and he hated how it steadied him.

"I'm not breaking," he muttered, rubbing his wound. A cough doubled him over, but he forced himself straight, glaring at the axes. "Not for her. Not for anyone."

Mya approached, her sword sheathed, her steps silent. "You're hurt," she said, her voice soft but firm. She knelt, reaching for his arm. "Let me—"

"No!" Kain snapped, jerking away. The axes clanked as he shifted, standing. "I'm fine! Stop hovering!" Her hand froze mid-air, and he glared—defiant, but her look softened him, just a crack. "I don't need coddling."

"Not coddling," she said, rising. Her smile twitched—sharp, warm. "Caring." She stepped closer, her fingers brushing his harness. "You fought Leon. You won."

"Won?" He scoffed, coughing. "I didn't win—he ran!" He grabbed an axe, hefting it with a wobble. "And I'm not yours to fuss over!"

"You are," she whispered, her hand sliding to his chest—light, possessive. "You stood. That's mine to cherish."

Kain's breath hitched, her touch sparking heat he couldn't kill. "Cherish?" he rasped, shoving her hand off—but slower than he meant. "I stood for me, Mya! Not you!"

Her eyes gleamed—love, not anger. "For you," she said, stepping back. "But I'm here. Always."

He coughed, turning away, gripping the axe tighter. "Stubborn," he muttered. "I'll outlast you yet."

The square stirred—bandits patching wounds, villagers hauling debris. Tobin jogged over, grinning. "Kain! Held the line like a king! What's next?"

"Next?" Kain growled, swinging the axe at the crate—half-purpose, half-rage. It thunked in, sticking, and he coughed, steadying himself. "Rest! I'm not your warlord!"

Tobin laughed, clapping his back. "Rest it is, king!" He jogged off, and Kain yanked the axe free, glaring after him.

"King," he rasped, spitting into the dirt. "Idiots."

Mya's laugh—soft, fierce—cut through. "They see you," she said, circling to his side. "Like I do." Her hand hovered near his, not touching—yet.

"See what?" he snapped, facing her. "A wreck with axes? I'm not your hero!"

"My heart," she said, her voice low. She grabbed his wrist, pulling him close—her strength gentle but unyielding. "Wreck or not, you're mine."

Kain stiffened, her closeness—her damn scent, steel and roses—messing with him. "Let go!" he growled, but didn't pull free—not right away. "I decide what I am!"

"Decide," she whispered, her lips brushing his ear. "I'll wait." She released him, stepping back, her smile fierce and patient.

He coughed, glaring, but his resolve wobbled—her faith, her fire, gnawed at him. "Wait forever," he muttered, turning to the horizon. Dust settled, but that faint horn from yesterday lingered in his mind—scouts, watching.

The bandit leader swaggered up, saluting. "Boss! We're patched—ready for your orders!"

"Orders?" Kain rasped, pointing the axe. "Fix this dump! I'm not marching anywhere!"

The leader grinned, nodding. "Aye, boss! Fortify it is!" He barked at his men, and they scattered—spears stacking, traps resetting.

Kain sank back onto the crate, coughing. "Fortify," he muttered. "Leon's not done. Neither am I."

Mya sat beside him—close, not touching. "He's not," she said, scanning the trees. "He'll come harder. We'll be ready."

"We?" Kain shot her a look, coughing. "I lead this, Mya. Not you."

"You lead," she said, her smile softening. "I follow." Her hand rested on the crate—near his, a quiet claim.

He glared, but didn't move—not yet. "Follow," he rasped. "Sure." Her presence—steady, fierce—bolstered him, and he hated how it fit.

A villager ran up, panting. "Kain! Tracks—north! More scouts!"

Kain stood, axes clanking. "Scouts?" he growled, coughing. "Leon's sniffing." He turned to Mya, her eyes sharp now. "Ideas?"

"Traps," she said, standing. "Lure them. Break them." Her hand brushed his arm—quick, deliberate. "Your call."

"My call," he echoed, nodding. "Fine—traps it is." He faced the villager. "Tell the bandits—pits, spikes, now!"

The man saluted, sprinting off. Kain hefted an axe, coughing but firm. "I'll check 'em myself," he said, glaring at Mya. "Alone."

"Alone?" Her smile twitched—sharp, loving. "I'll watch." She stepped back, her hand lingering in the air. "For you."

"For me," he muttered, turning north. "Sure." He trudged off, axes dragging, coughing through the strain. Her gaze burned into his back—love, not chains—and he didn't shake it off—not fully.

The trees loomed, tracks faint in the dirt. Kain knelt, coughing, the axe steady in his grip. "Come on, Leon," he rasped. "I'm waiting."

Mya's voice drifted—soft, distant. "I'm here, Kain."

He glared over his shoulder—she stood at the square's edge, watching, her smile fierce. "Crazy," he muttered, but his lips twitched—damn it, a smirk. "We'll see who breaks first."

The wind carried a horn—closer now. Kain tightened his grip, coughing, axes glinting. The calm cracked, and he braced—alone, but not quite.