THE SHARED LOAF: A girl in a camel coat gave half a loaf of bread to a starving child on the frozen street. She didn't know she was rescuing her lost cousin—or starting a war.

Ten minutes later, Nora found herself sitting at a massive mahogany dining table long enough to seat twenty people.

Plates of golden roasted chicken, buttered potatoes, fresh baked rolls, and bowls of warm fruit soup were placed before her. Nora stared at the food, her stomach making a loud, painful growling sound, but she didn't move her fork. She looked at Clara nervously.

"Go ahead," Clara smiled, spooning a hot potato onto Nora’s plate. "It's real. It's all for us."

Nora didn't use the silver utensils. She picked up a chicken leg with her bare, trembling hands and took a bite. The explosion of flavor made her eyes fill with tears again. She ate frantically, driven by years of starvation, barely pausing to chew.

Clara watched her with a mixture of awe and deep empathy, occasionally passing her a glass of sweet apple juice.

Sitting at the head of the table, untouched food sitting before him, Victor watched Nora's every move. He didn't reprimand her for her lack of table manners. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the silver crescent scar beneath her collarbone, which was now clearly visible as the warmth of the room made her loosen the collar of Clara’s coat.

"That mark," Victor spoke up suddenly, making Nora freeze mid-bite. "On your collarbone. How did you get it?"

Nora lowered the food, swallowing hard. "I... I don't know, sir. I've always had it. It hurts when it rains."

Victor reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an old, faded silver pocket watch. He pressed the latch, popping the cover open. He slid the watch across the long polished table until it stopped right beside Nora’s plate.

Inside the cover of the watch was an engraved emblem: a silver crescent moon wrapped around a flying bird.

It was the exact same shape as the scar on Nora’s collarbone.

Nora stared at the watch, her breath catching in her throat. She touched her collarbone with grease-stained fingers. "What... what is that?"

"That is the crest of the Vance Family Trust," Victor said softly, leaning forward. "Eight years ago, my younger sister—your mother—disappeared during the uprising in Sector 4. Her infant daughter was declared dead when the laboratory burned to the ground."