The Game I Won’t Play

Kain Rivel crouched in Rivermist's western woods, the dual axes gripped tight, their rust glinting under faint starlight. His coughs rasped, his arms ached from the last ambush , but he led the charge—bandits fanning out, Mya Seraphine at his side. Her silver hair shimmered, her sword drawn, her violet eyes locked on him—love, fire, a vow he couldn't dodge. Leon's scouts circled, horns blaring, and Kain smirked—coughing, defiant. "Let's end this quick," he growled, hefting an axe.

Mya's smile flashed—sharp, warm. "Quick," she echoed, her voice low. Her hand brushed his—quick, fierce—and Kain glared, shoving it off—but not fast.

"Focus!" he rasped, coughing. Her touch—damn it—stirred him, but he shook it off, peering through the trees. Shadows shifted—hooves thudded—five riders emerged, Leon's gold glinting.

"Rivel!" a woman's voice rang—high, haughty. Not Leon, but a knight in sleek armor, blonde hair spilling out, flanked by scouts. "Surrender! Lord Valtor's mercy's thin!"

Kain stood, coughing—axe raised. "Mercy?" he barked, grinning raggedly. "Tell your pretty boy to shove it!"

The woman—Liana, Kain guessed, from the novel's harem—sneered, her sword gleaming. "Fool! He's got us—me, Sera, Vera—all better than that madwoman!" She nodded at Mya, who tensed—her smile sharpening.

"Us?" Kain rasped, coughing—then laughed, harsh and loud. "A harem? That's his strength?" He swung an axe—wild, mocking—thunking it into a tree. "I'd rather die than juggle skirts!"

Liana's face twisted—rage, insult. "Juggling?" she spat, charging—horse thundering. "You'll beg for his grace!"

Kain dove, coughing—the axe in hand swinging up. It clashed with her sword—sparks flew—the jolt rattling him, but he shoved, grinning. "Grace? I'll take dirt over that clown show!"

Mya laughed—wild, fierce—her blade flashing. She sliced a scout's reins—the horse bolted, rider tumbling—and turned to Kain, eyes blazing. "Dirt?" she teased, stepping close. "You've got me."

"Damn right!" he barked, coughing—swinging at Liana. The axe grazed her armor—something flickered in his arm, that surge (Ch. 17)—and she veered, cursing. "One's enough!"

Liana wheeled back, glaring. "One? Pathetic! Leon's got power—women—glory!"

"Glory?" Kain rasped, coughing—axe steady. "He's a peacock with toys!" He charged—reckless, fierce—the axe slamming her shield. It dented—his arms burned, that spark flaring—and she staggered, horse rearing.

The bandits surged—spears thrusting—two scouts fell, skewered. Mya darted, her sword a blur—the third scout dropped, blood pooling. Liana swung—Kain ducked, coughing—the axe arcing up, clipping her pauldron. She yelped, retreating—eyes wide.

"Power?" Kain growled, coughing—standing tall. "I've got this!" He tapped the axe—grinning, ragged—Mya beside him, her laugh ringing.

"Enough!" Liana snapped, reining back. "Leon'll crush you—and her!" She glared at Mya, who smiled—sharp, deadly.

"Try," Mya said, her voice low—loving. She stepped to Kain, her hand on his shoulder—firm, warm. "He's mine—alone."

"Alone?" Liana scoffed, turning her horse. "Fools!" She galloped off—two scouts dead, one fleeing—dust swirling.

Kain sank to a knee, coughing—the axes thudding beside him. "Harem," he rasped, spitting. "What a joke." That surge faded—his arms heavy again—but he grinned, coughing through it. "One's plenty."

Mya knelt, her hand cupping his face—gentle, fierce. "Plenty," she whispered, her smile softening—love, not chains. "You hate it—his game."

"Damn right," he growled, shoving her hand off—but slower. A cough flared, but he met her gaze—defiant, tangled. "I don't share—not me, not you."

"Never," she said, her voice a vow—her lips brushing his ear. "You're mine—only." She kissed him—quick, hard—and Kain jolted, shoving back—coughing, glaring.

"Warn me!" he barked, but his voice cracked—heat lingered, damn it. "Crazy!"

"Crazy," she laughed, standing—her hand hovering near his. "Yours."

He glared, coughing—axes glinting as he rose. "Mine," he muttered, turning east—Rivermist's lights faint. "We'll see."

The bandits cheered—"Boss! Smashed 'em!"—hauling gear. Kain waved them off—coughing, steady. "Shut it!" he rasped. "Back—now!"

They saluted, jogging off—Mya beside him, not crowding—just there. "Leon's harem," she said, her smile sharp—amused. "Weak."

"Weak?" Kain scoffed, coughing—grinning faintly. "Flashy trash—I'd rather fight with you." He froze—damn it, he'd said it—her eyes gleamed, triumphant.

"Fight?" she teased, her hand brushing his—warm, steady. "Live with me."

"Live?" He glared, coughing—axes dragging. "Don't push!" But her laugh—bright, fierce—followed him, and he didn't shake it—not fully.

A horn sounded—distant, north now. Kain tensed—coughing, ready. "More?" he growled, turning to Mya—her sword out, her smile fierce.

"More," she said, stepping close—her shoulder to his. "Together?"

He coughed, nodding—axes raised. "My call—hit 'em hard!" he barked—bandits rallying, Mya grinning. "No harem crap—just us!"

"Us," she echoed—love, fire—and Kain smirked, coughing—charging north, axes glinting, her at his side—his way, always.