Finn

There are three rules to stealing food at the Westwind Vale market: one, never grab more than you can carry; two, never make eye contact with the guards; and three—most importantly—always have a way out. Today, I planned on breaking all three of those rules.

The bread cart was right there, piled high with golden-brown loaves, crusts warm and crusty from the morning oven. Just a quick grab. No big deal. Except I wasn’t planning on just one loaf today. Nope. My siblings deserved a feast, and I was determined to bring them one.

"Alright, Finn, nice and easy," I whispered to myself as I slid past a group of gossiping women, their chatter loud enough to mask my steps. I zeroed in on my target—the baker's daughter, Emilia, standing next to the cart, idly fiddling with her braid. She was looking particularly radiant today. Not ideal, given that I needed to be invisible.

But then again...

"Finn Wilder," I muttered to myself with a grin, "you never back away from a challenge."

I swaggered up to the cart, letting my hand linger over a loaf, and looked at her like I had just noticed her. “Emilia, is it just me, or is today hotter than a blacksmith’s forge? Must be the sun reflecting right off your smile.”

She blinked at me, then blushed, rolling her eyes so hard I swear I could hear it. “Finn, you’re ridiculous. What do you want this time?”

“Just a chat with my favorite baker’s daughter,” I said, inching my fingers closer to a loaf. Her eyes flicked towards my hand, but I shifted the conversation. “Did you hear about old man Bartleby losing his prize goose again? Rumor is it joined a gang of ducks. Birds of a feather, you know?”

She giggled. Hook, line, and sinker.

While she laughed, my other hand snatched a second loaf. Then a third. A fourth was risky, but hey, I liked to live dangerously. I winked at her, slipping the bread behind my back into my satchel.

"Finn, you are incorrigible," Emilia said, still shaking her head at me.

"And yet, you still smile every time," I replied, giving her a roguish grin.

Then, I heard it—the unmistakable, angry grunt of the town guard. Ah, right on cue. They must've noticed my earlier handiwork. I had to disappear before they connected me with the missing loaf—or the other three now safely tucked away.

“I’d love to chat more, but I’ve got a, uh, prior engagement,” I said, flashing Emilia another smile. She opened her mouth to reply, but I was already backing away, then turning on my heel and taking off.

“Hey, you!” the guard shouted, his heavy boots thudding against the cobblestones. I glanced back and recognized him—Sergeant Willis. Big, slow, and most importantly, wearing a shiny gold ring on his sausage-like finger. Perfect.

As I darted through the crowded market, I set my first distraction: a tripwire between two stalls. Willis hit the wire and went down like a sack of flour, face-first into a pile of cabbages. I heard a few people laugh, and I couldn’t help a chuckle myself.

I veered to the left, ducking behind a cart of apples. I paused for just a heartbeat, Willis still scrambling to his feet, then darted out again, slipping my hand along his as I passed—gold ring liberated in an instant. I’d pawn that later. The baker’s bread would fill our bellies, but the ring would keep us warm for a few weeks yet.

I kept running, slipping between barrels and crates, setting a small pouch of itching powder on the ground, waiting for just the right moment. I looked back in time to see Willis stomp on it, and as he roared in frustration, I could see his face already starting to turn red. “Hope you enjoy the rash, big guy,” I muttered, trying not to laugh too loudly.

It took some more weaving, a jump over an old lady’s cart, and a quick scramble up a pile of crates, but I finally made it to my escape route: a loose board on the back fence. I wriggled through and landed on the other side in the dusty alleyway, panting but victorious.

“Ha! Three rules broken and not a scratch on me,” I said, giving the empty alley a triumphant grin.

Well, almost. Because just as I was brushing myself off and planning how to get these loaves home, I heard a gruff voice from behind me.

"Hold it right there, Finn Wilder."

I whipped around, only to find myself face-to-face with two guards I hadn’t accounted for. One was a stocky fellow with a nose that looked like it had been introduced to a few too many fists in his time. The other was tall and lanky, with a mustache that wobbled as he spoke.

"You think you can just waltz outta here after what you pulled, huh?" said Mr. Nose, taking a step forward.

I gave them my best sheepish smile, hands slowly coming up in surrender—well, one of them anyway, the other still clutching a loaf.

"Waltz? Me? Gentlemen, I don't dance. Not since that disastrous incident with the mayor's daughter. You heard about that, right?"

"Shut it, Wilder," Mustache Man snapped. "Where's the bread? We know you took it."

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"Bread? Bread?" I glanced around, then down at the very loaf in my hand. "Oh, this bread! You mean this one right here? Funny story, actually. You see, this bread—well, it’s not just bread. It’s… uh… an ancient family heirloom! Passed down from generation to generation of Wilders. Very sacred. You wouldn’t just confiscate an heirloom, would you? I mean, you know what they say, 'The family that… bakes together, stays together.'"

Stocky Nose grumbled and took another step closer. "Enough with the jokes. Where's the rest?"

“Rest? Ah, yes, the ‘rest.’ Rest is important. Gets me through a hard day, you know? Keeps me sharp.” I gave a toothy grin. “In fact, I’m thinking of resting right now. You two look like you could use a nap too, honestly.”

Mustache Man was clearly losing his patience. He took another step, reaching out as if to grab me, but I quickly held up the loaf in front of me, like it was some kind of shield.

“Ah-ah! Careful now! You wouldn’t want to hurt my great-aunt Patty’s... er, enchanted loaf, would you?” I waggled the bread dramatically. “It’s said that anyone who disturbs it shall suffer an eternal curse of… um… bad digestion!”

Both guards hesitated, and I saw the flicker of confusion in their eyes. I knew this was my opening.

“Also,” I added, looking between them, “did either of you fellas hear that?” I craned my neck to the side and cupped my hand over my ear. “Sounded like… a bear.”

“A bear?” Mr. Nose blinked, glancing around nervously.

“Oh, yes,” I nodded seriously, widening my eyes. “A very large bear. Hungry too, by the sound of it. Which, by the way, reminds me that I’m also starving.” My stomach chose that exact moment to give a growl—a loud, gurgling one. “See? Even my belly’s protesting the treatment I’m getting today.”

Mustache Man looked less convinced, but his partner’s eyes were already darting around. I decided to take it up a notch.

“You know what they say about bears, right?” I whispered conspiratorially, leaning in. “They’re attracted to… mustard.”

“Mustard?” Mr. Nose’s face paled.

“Yep. Mustard. I’ve seen it happen before—I mean, not personally, but my cousin’s uncle’s friend’s goat once heard about it. And, boy, those bears just love mustard.” I gestured to the guard’s jerkin. “And would you look at that bright yellow stitching right there? Pure mustard vibes.”

“What? I—” He glanced down at his outfit, visibly flustered.

“And honestly, do you guys even have a plan for when the bear shows up?” I kept talking, inching backwards. “I mean, my plan is to run. Which, uh, starts right now.”

And before they could process, I turned on my heel and sprinted down the alleyway.

“Hey! Stop him!” Mustache Man shouted, but I could hear the other one mumbling something about mustard and bears as they gave chase.

I darted around a corner, my legs pumping beneath me, the loaves in my satchel banging against my back. Hunger gnawed at my stomach like a feral animal, and I cursed under my breath. I needed to find a hiding spot—and a snack—soon.

My eyes fell on a stack of barrels next to an open window. Without missing a beat, I hopped up, climbing the barrels and squeezing through the window. I tumbled inside, landing in what appeared to be a kitchen—and not just any kitchen. There was a pot of stew simmering, and loaves of bread cooling on the counter.

“Oh-ho-ho,” I muttered, my mouth already watering. “Lady Luck, you do smile on me.”

I heard the muffled shouts of the guards outside, but for now, I had found my temporary haven. I grabbed a wooden spoon, dipped it into the stew, and took a gulp.

“Mmm… hot!” I yelped, waving my hand in front of my mouth. “But totally worth it.”

There was a thud from outside, and I knew I didn’t have much time. I stuffed a piece of bread in my mouth, grabbed another loaf for the road, and slipped out the other door, the stew warming my belly.

“One feast secured, still hungry though,” I whispered to myself. “Well, Finn Wilder, today’s shaping up just fine. Now let’s get these loaves home.”

With the guards still barking behind me, I took off down the alley again, my satchel full, my grin wide, and my stomach—for the first time in days—at least a little bit satisfied.

The grin started to fade from my face as I ran down the alley. Home. My heart sank as I thought about it. I knew what was waiting for me there. My mother’s face—stern, disappointed, exhausted. The way her eyes always seemed to look through me, as though I was some useless thing taking up space. The way her words stung even more than the hunger in my belly.

"Wasting space and food," I muttered to myself, bitterness creeping into my voice. It was what she always said. Maybe she was right. I wasn't like my older siblings. They were strong, reliable, always doing their part to help the family.

There was Garrett, the oldest, at eighteen. He worked in the lumberyard, cutting and hauling wood from dawn to dusk. His muscles were solid, his hands calloused—he’d taken up the role of a father figure when ours had passed, and he carried that weight like the logs he dragged from the forest—without complaint. He always gave me a sad sort of smile when he came home, like he wished things were different.

Then there was Clara, sixteen, the clever one. She worked for the seamstress, sewing and tailoring clothes for the townspeople. Clara was sharp with her needle and sharper with her tongue, always ready to defend us from insults, especially if someone made a remark about how we were getting by. She’d scold me the most, but I knew it was because she cared.

After her came the twins, Rowan and Reed, both fifteen, who worked in the fields. They had taken to farming like it was a game, always turning chores into competitions. Rowan had a laugh that could light up even the darkest of days, and Reed had a knack for coaxing vegetables to grow, even in the roughest soil. They shared everything, and even now, when times were tough, they’d slip me an extra carrot or potato when they could.

And finally, there was Eliza, fourteen, who worked at the inn, washing dishes and scrubbing floors. She’d hum while she worked, her voice soft and sweet, bringing a bit of music into our otherwise bleak days. She’d sneak me bread rolls from the inn when she could, whispering for me not to tell anyone. She always looked out for me, despite being barely older.

All of them worked hard—harder than any of us should have to. They were strong, resilient, and they all bore the weight of our family’s struggle with grace. Unlike me, they hadn’t grown up hungry. They had been strong when the king’s rations had come into place three years ago, while I’d grown skinny and small. I wasn’t strong like Garrett, or clever like Clara. I didn’t have the twin’s humor or Eliza’s kindness. I was just Finn—small, quick, and always hungry.

But at least today, they'd have something to eat. I knew my siblings had been working themselves to the bone just to scrape by. We hadn’t been able to buy bread in weeks. My brothers and sisters deserved better. Maybe they’d be angry when they found out I’d stolen the food, maybe my mother would give me the beating I’d come to expect—but maybe, just maybe, they’d also thank me.

Maybe they'd see that I wasn’t completely useless. That I could do something right for once. Even if it meant breaking the law. Even if it meant more bruises and more shame. Because in the end, what mattered more than anything was that they had something to eat.

The sun was beginning to set as I approached the small shack we called home. I slowed down, feeling the weight of the loaves in my satchel, the weight of what was to come. I took a deep breath, steeling myself.

"Alright, Finn," I whispered. "Time to face the music."

With that, I pushed open the door and stepped inside, bracing for whatever awaited me.