Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
[Thorfinn x reader]
Five years.
Five years since you killed your master and disappeared into the night, shedding the skin of the terrified, beaten slave you once were. Five years of theft, deception, and endless flight. In that time, you've become something else entirely. The memories of your past—of the shackles, of the beating, of the death—fade like the flickering embers of a long-buried fire, but the fear remains, always creeping at the edges of your mind. It's a fear that you've learned to ignore, to push aside in favor of survival. The world is dangerous for someone like you. Always has been, always will be.
But you've adapted. You've learned how to be a shadow.
Today, the streets of this market town are more crowded than usual. You can smell the dirt in the air, mixed with the scent of freshly baked bread and roasting meat. The merchants' voices rise above the chatter, haggling over prices, their hands gesturing wildly to make their sales. The customers push and shove, eager to get their hands on what they need for the coming week. You've seen this before—this frenzy, this need to consume. It's the same in every town, every market. It's just a matter of picking your moment.
You're good at this. Too good, maybe.
You slip through the crowd, your cloak pulled tight around you. The weight of your last haul—coins, food, trinkets—sits heavy in the folds of your pockets, but you know better than to stop now. You have to keep moving, always. There's no time to enjoy the spoils. Not yet.
You pass a stall filled with bright, colorful cloth, the merchant eager to make a sale. You stop for a moment, pretending to admire the goods, fingers brushing over a silk scarf. The merchant, a short man with a thick, greasy mustache, doesn't pay you much mind as he argues with a neighboring seller. You're not here for the cloth.
Your eyes flicker toward a nearby crowd, where an old woman is distracted, counting the coins in her hand. She's lost in thought, murmuring to herself about the weather and the price of grain. The perfect mark.
You move without hesitation.
Your fingers slip into the folds of her satchel, brushing past a coin pouch before you yank it out. It's fast, slick. A practiced motion. No one notices. You step away, blending back into the crowd before anyone can react.
Your heart doesn't even race—not anymore. You don't get excited by this. You just do it. It's the way you've learned to live.
But even as you move on, you can't help but feel the weight of the stolen coin in your palm. It's too easy. It always is. Too easy for someone who's spent years honing this craft. But that doesn't mean you'll stop. You never stop. Because if you do, you know what happens. The wanted posters will catch up to you. The rumors will catch up to you. The guards will catch up to you.
