The Winter Ration Cut

The fire burned low, but the hunger burned deeper.

Three days since the raid. Four since the last proper meat. The stew had been flour and hope last night—tonight, not even that.

Darin stood in the supply line, behind a merchant's son with a padded jerkin too clean for war. Ahead, an ex-farrier muttered to himself and cradled an empty bowl like it was gold.

Quartermaster Brine stood behind the ration barrels with his usual sneer. "One scoop. No refills. No questions. No trades. If you're caught bribing, I break fingers."

He repeated that with every fifth man.

By the time Darin reached the front, Brine had added a new line.

"Officers eat first. Then the armsmen. Then whoever's still worth feeding."

He looked Darin over. "You one of Raive's?"

Darin nodded.

Brine hesitated—then gave him a full ladle.

Not generous. Just careful.

Harl wasn't so lucky. He arrived three minutes later and got half.

"What's this?" Harl barked.

"Ask your sergeant to feed you," Brine muttered. "Or catch a rabbit."

"It's the same damn line!"

"It's not the same damn war."

Back at their fire, Harl kicked at a log. The flame sputtered.

"They cut the rations by file rank. You hear that?"

"I saw it," Darin said.

"You think Raive told them?"

"No. But I think he didn't stop it."

Harl didn't answer. He just held his bowl and stared into it like it might apologize.

Darin didn't eat right away. He set the food down beside him and checked the cloth bundle again. Still wrapped. Still dry. Still hidden.

The hunger bit deeper.

He forced himself to wait.

An hour later, raised voices.

At the east end of camp, two men from Fourth Rank were shouting. A noble's cook had taken two loaves off their pack mule. Claimed House Right.

A scuffle broke out. No weapons—just fists and elbows. Then Raive arrived and broke it apart with his boot.

Literally.

He kicked one man down, stood on the other's hand, and called for chains.

Darin watched the whole thing.

He looked around. Twenty men stood nearby. No one stepped in. No one argued.

There were no rules here. Only food, rank, and timing.

He sat back down beside Harl, whose eyes hadn't left the fight.

"This is how it starts," Harl said softly.

"How what starts?"

"Loyalty. Or mutiny."

Darin didn't answer.

But he didn't eat, either.

Not yet.