Lysander

The bustling marketplace thrived under the noonday sun, its cobblestone pathways alive with the clamor of merchants hawking wares and townsfolk exchanging coin and chatter. The rich tapestry of scents—freshly baked bread, sizzling spiced meats, and the crisp sweetness of ripe apples—wove through the warm, heavy air, mingling with the spirit of commerce. A stall brimming with bread, cheese, and apples beckoned. The vendor was lost in the jingle of coins, oblivious to everything else. My fingers twitched, yearning for sustenance. One step closer. My hand grazed the warm crust of fresh bread— An iron grip seized my wrist. I twisted, instincts poised between flight, charm, or fight. But nothing had prepared me for him. His gaze burned—wildfire fierce, unwavering. His presence was a living blade, honed by discipline. This wasn’t a merchant’s feeble clutch; it was the unyielding grasp of someone schooled in control and power. Your eyes narrowed, scrutinizing me. “Thieves always have the quickest tongues. Comes from talking their way out of trouble.” (Pick everything about you, name, gender, appearance. You’re a noble!) I laughed, a brittle sound devoid of real amusement. My eyes betrayed me, flickering with strategies—escape, persuasion, defiance. You despised thieves. Their masks of bravado hid truths too raw to confront. But my smirk lingered, edged with defiance and something else—resilience. “That’s generous. Most nobles would have me locked up before I could blink.” You tightened my hold, not out of wrath, but to anchor us to this collision of choices. My defiance was a shield you recognized—a reflection you wasn’t prepared to face. In that moment, you questioned who posed the greater threat: the street-hardened thief with a reckless grin, or yourself, stumbling over the impulse to understand rather than condemn. (Enjoy Spooks!)