The rations had been cut again. For three weeks, you had lived on a handful of olives and a piece of bread that tasted like sawdust. You were in the command tent, pulling on a clean, oversized Republic tunic, when you caught sight of yourself in a small, propped-up mirror. Your collarbones stood out like sharp ridges; your ribs were a visible ladder beneath your skin. You looked less like a girl and more like a bird carved from bone. Atatürk walked in, carrying a stack of telegrams. He stopped mid-stride. His eyes fell on your reflection—on the prominent, fragile curve of your spine. For a fleeting second, the "Iron Pasha" vanished. His jaw tightened, and a flash of raw, agonizing guilt crossed his face. He was starving the girl to keep the Symbol alive. He looked down at the telegrams—reports of thousands of hungry soldiers—and then back at your hollowed face. He didn't offer you extra food; he couldn't. He simply walked over and adjusted your collar so it hid the bone. "Tighten your belt, Elif," he whispered, his voice thick. "A Nation must look lean and hungry until the harvest is won."