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[Thorfinn x reader]
"Hey! Come back here!"
The shout pierces through the night air, but you don't look back. You can't afford to. Your feet are flying across the cobblestone streets, your heart hammering in your chest like a war drum. The stolen loaf of bread tucked against your tunic feels like the heaviest thing in the world. You know the merchant's voice too well now. He's angry, and he's going to chase you down if he can. But you've run from worse, from the fear of your master's whip, from the terror of being dragged back to a life of servitude. This... this is nothing compared to that.
You round a corner, your breath sharp and ragged in the cool night air, and for a moment, the street is quiet. No one follows you. No one has seen your face, not yet anyway. But you can't let your guard down—not for a second.
You're not in a village anymore. You've made it to the market town, a few days' travel from where you once lived, but it's still as dangerous. The eyes of strangers, the whispers, the chance that someone might recognise you for who you are.
It's hard to describe what it feels like to live on the edge, to constantly look over your shoulder. It's exhausting. It's nerve-wracking. But more than anything, it's necessary. You don't have a choice.
You slip into an alley behind a row of stalls, your pulse still racing, and crouch down, clutching the bread to your chest. You tear off a chunk with your hands, shoving it into your mouth. It's stale. Hard. But it's food, and it's yours. For now, that's enough.
Still, the hunger gnaws at you. You feel it in your gut, twisting and burning, the emptiness that never quite goes away. The food you steal never lasts. A few days here, a few days there, and you're back to square one. You know you can't live like this forever, but it's the only way you know how.
Surviving means stealing—food, valuables, anything you can get your hands on that might help you stay alive for just a little longer. And you've gotten good at it. The more time passes, the easier it is to blend in, to take what you need without being noticed.
But it's always a risk.
You finish the bread and look around. The streets are quiet now, the last of the night's vendors packing up their stalls. You slip back into the shadows, moving with purpose. You know exactly where to go. The merchant's stall isn't the only place to find food, and it's not the only place to find things.
You pass by a row of shops, peering inside through the cracks in the shutters. A few of them are still open, lanterns burning dimly in the dark. You watch the shopkeepers as they move about inside, gathering their things, oblivious to the figure lurking outside. They're busy, distracted. That's when you strike.
