The Fire I Can’t Put Out

Kain Rivel trudged back into Rivermist's square, the dual axes clanking at his hips, their weight a familiar ache. The night's ambush—three of Leon's knights downed—still buzzed in his veins, that strange surge in his swing replaying in his mind. He'd cracked a helm, dented armor, felt something snap awake (Ch. 17), but now his arms trembled, his coughs rasped, and the axes dragged like always. Mya Seraphine walked beside him—not crowding, just there—her silver hair glinting under torchlight, her violet eyes flickering with pride and something deeper.

"That was sloppy," he muttered, kicking a pebble. A cough doubled him over, but he straightened, glaring at the axes. "Lucky shots."

Mya's smile twitched—sharp, warm. "Not luck," she said, her voice low. She stepped closer, her hand brushing his arm—light, deliberate. "You."

"Me?" Kain scoffed, pulling away. The axes steadied him, grounding his shaky legs. "I'm a wreck, Mya! Don't start!" Her gaze softened—damn her—and he glared, defiance flaring. "I don't need your fairy tales!"

"No tales," she said, her fingers hovering near his harness. "Truth. I saw it—strength." She tilted her head, her smile fierce. "Mine."

"Yours?" He growled, yanking an axe free. It wobbled, but he pointed it—coughing through the strain. "I'm mine! Get that straight!" Her laugh—bright, wild—hit him, and he hated how it stirred him—anger, sure, but more.

"You're both," she whispered, stepping into his space. Her hand slid to his chest—warm, steady—her lips close. "I love you, Kain Rivel."

Kain froze, heat flooding him—rage, want, tangled tight. "Love?" he rasped, shoving her hand off—but not fast. A cough flared, but he held her gaze. "You're nuts!" Her closeness—her damn scent, steel and roses—messed with him, and he gripped the axe tighter. "Back off!"

She didn't. Her smile softened, her fingers brushing his jaw—quick, fierce. "Nuts for you," she said, her voice a vow. "You felt it—fighting. That fire."

"Fire?" He swatted her hand, stepping back—coughing, glaring. "I felt pissed! That's it!" But his arm tingled—that surge from the fight, faint now, gnawed at him. "I don't know what happened!"

"You will," she said, her eyes glinting—faith, hunger. She stepped back—rare space—her hand lingering in the air. "It's there. I'll wait."

Kain coughed, turning away—axes clanking, mind racing. "Wait 'til you're old," he muttered, stomping toward the square. Her words—her damn touch—stuck, and he hated how they fit.

The bandits swarmed, dragging the knights' gear—swords, helms, a dented breastplate. The leader grinned, saluting. "Boss! Clean sweep! What's next?"

"Next?" Kain rasped, slamming the axe onto a crate. It stuck, wobbling, and he coughed, steadying himself. "Sleep! I'm not your general!"

The leader laughed, clapping his back—too hard. "Aye, boss! Rest up—you're a beast out there!"

"Beast?" Kain growled, yanking the axe free. "I'm half-dead!" But the bandits cheered, hauling loot, and he shook his head—coughing, glaring. "Idiots."

Mya lingered, her smile unshaken. "They see it too," she said, circling closer. "That spark. My Kain."

"Your Kain?" He spun, axe raised—coughing, defiant. "I'm not a damn pet!" But her look—pride, love—hit him, and he faltered—damn it, why'd she get under his skin?

"No pet," she said, her voice soft—fierce. "Partner." She grabbed his wrist—gentle, unyielding—pulling him close. "We're stronger together."

Kain stiffened, her touch burning—her pulse under his grip matching his own. "Stronger?" he rasped, shoving her back—but not far. "I'm strong alone!" A cough flared, but he stood tall—axes glinting, will blazing.

"Alone?" Her laugh rang—bright, dangerous. "You're not." She kissed him—hard, sudden—her lips fierce against his. Kain jolted, heat surging—anger, want—then shoved her off, wiping his mouth—coughing, glaring.

"Warn me!" he barked, but his voice shook—damn it, he'd felt it back—brief, raw. "Crazy!"

"Crazy," she echoed, stepping back—her smile triumphant, loving. "But yours."

He glared, coughing—axes heavy, heart pounding. "Mine?" he muttered, turning away. "We'll see."

A horn blared—distant, sharp. Kain tensed, spinning—Mya's hand flew to her hilt. "More?" he rasped, scanning the dark. "Leon's fast."

"Scouts," she said, her eyes narrowing—fierce, steady. "He's testing us." She glanced at him, her smile twitching. "You ready?"

"Ready?" He hefted both axes—coughing, grinning raggedly. "Let's find out." He stomped toward the sound—Mya beside him, not crowding—just there.

The square stirred—bandits grabbing spears, villagers peering out. Tobin ran up, panting. "Kain! Horns—west now! They're circling!"

"Circling?" Kain growled, coughing. "Fine—let's hit 'em!" He turned to Mya, her sword half-drawn—her gaze locked on him. "Ideas?"

"Ambush," she said, her voice low—loving. "You lead—I strike." Her hand brushed his—quick, warm. "Together."

"Together?" He scoffed, but nodded—coughing, axes steady. "My call—flank 'em!" He barked at the bandits—"West! Move!"

They saluted, sprinting—Kain leading, Mya at his side. The horn grew louder—hooves thudded, shadows shifted. Kain gripped the axes—coughing, fierce—something flickered in his arms, faint but there.

"Leon," he rasped, smirking. "Come get me."

Mya's laugh—wild, warm—followed him. "He won't," she said, her sword glinting. "Not with us."

Kain glared ahead—coughing, ready. "Us," he muttered—axes raised, fire simmering. "Maybe." The dark loomed, and he charged—tangled with her, but his own man still.