Bread for a Banner

The ration line was longer than usual.The biscuit crates had only four seals instead of five.

That meant someone had died.

Or someone had stolen.Or someone had miscounted, which meant the same as theft.

Darin stood behind Dren, beside Harl. Neither spoke.

Raive didn't show. He didn't need to. He'd already warned Darin: "The line remembers who eats last—and who feeds first."

The wounded were at the end. The cart roll still marked them as "infirm," which meant half-ration.

But half-ration after blood loss was a joke.

It was a message: Heal or die faster.

When the crate was opened and the portions cut, Darin stepped forward—not out of turn, but deliberately.

He took three.

One for himself. One for Dren. One for Alric.

Then walked past the wounded line, knelt, and gave two away.

He tore his own in half. Ate only one side.

No words. Just dry bread. Shared in silence.

Someone saw. Not an officer.

Someone who would speak later.

The moment passed—but the memory was planted.

That night, Raive sat down beside him.

"Bread's expensive," he said.

Darin didn't look up. "So is forgetting."

Raive grunted. "Not bad. Save that one for a speech someday."

"I won't give speeches."

"You will. Or someone else will speak for you."