Page 11 of The Broken Dawn

"I..." Harald's voice caught. "Thank you."

"Any time, Your Highness." Jakob's bow was perfectly correct, but his eyes held a challenge. Before Harald could respond—though what he would have said, he had no idea—Jakob had disappeared back down the stairs, taking that almost-smile with him.

Harald stood for a moment, arms full of his own pressed uniforms, feeling the warmth of the laundry fade with each passing second. Then he squared his shoulders, adjusted his collar, and stepped back into the rigid world of formations and regulations.

Evening formation was already gathering when Harald arrived in the courtyard after spending the afternoon catching up on the already prodigious amount of reading for his various courses. He'd looked for Jakob at lunch, and then again in the afternoon, but hadn't seen him. Lines of cadets stood at attention, the late summer sun glinting off brass buttons and polished boots. The air crackled with nervous energy—new cadets trying to remember their places, senior cadets watching for any mistake.

Christian stood at the front, clipboard in hand, every inch of his uniform regulation-correct. His eyes found Harald immediately.

"Cutting it rather close, cousin." His voice carried just far enough to make nearby cadets shift uncomfortably. "Though I see you've managed to correct your uniform deficiencies."

Harald took his place in line, keeping his expression neutral. The patches sat perfectly on his jacket—he'd checked three times before leaving his room. His collar stays were straight, his buttons gleamed, and even Christian wouldn't be able to find fault with Sarah's stitching.

"Company!" Christian's voice rang across the courtyard. "Attention!"

Harald's body responded automatically to the command, spine straightening, chin lifting. Around him, a hundred other cadets did the same, boots clicking together in unison. The sound echoed off the academy's stone walls.

"Dress right, dress!"

Another synchronized movement. Harald turned his head sharply to the right, checking his alignment with the cadet next to him. Through the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of dark curls in the line ahead—Jakob, standing perfectly at attention, somehow managing to make even that look like a subtle challenge to authority.

"Ready, front!"

Harald snapped his head forward again. Christian began walking the lines, clipboard ready, measuring each cadet against the academy's exacting standards. His footsteps were deliberate, unhurried. Making them wait.

The sun crept lower, painting the courtyard in long shadows. No one moved. No one spoke. Even breathing seemed to require permission.

Christian paused behind Harald, close enough that Harald could feel his presence. Checking his jacket, his posture, looking for any excuse to find fault.

A long moment passed. Then another.

Christian moved on.

Harald kept his eyes forward, expression carefully blank. But inside, something warm unfurled—a small victory, wrapped in the memory of careful hands and an almost-smile.

The academy's bell tower began to toll, marking the hour. On the sixth chime, Christian's voice rang out again.

"Company, dismissed!"

The courtyard erupted into controlled movement—cadets breaking formation with ordered steps, heading toward the dining hall in ordered groups. No running, no unnecessary conversation. Everything measured, everything watched.

Harald fell into step with his assigned section. Ahead, he caught another glimpse of Jakob, now deep in conversation with a fellow second year cadet. As if feeling Harald's gaze, Jakob glanced back.

Their eyes met for just a moment. Then Jakob turned away, but not before Harald saw it—that same knowing look from the laundry, carrying the promise of more lessons in proper pressure and careful handling.

Harald adjusted his newly-pressed collar and followed his section inside.

Chapter 3

August 24, 1939

The scrape of wooden chairs against stone echoed through the high-ceilinged classroom as cadets found their seats. Nearly a week into his time at Riddarhuset, Harald's uniform collar still chafed at his neck, though his shoulders had begun adjusting to the weight of his jacket.

Christian's shoulder brushed against his as his cousin claimed the adjacent seat, blocking Harald's view of the rest of the room. A flash of movement caught Harald's eye - Jakob sliding into a seat behind him and to one side, his dark curls slightly disheveled.

The classroom clock ticked away the seconds until class began, each metallic click matching the rhythm of Harald's pulse. He traced his finger along the grain of the ancient desk, wondering how many future officers had sat here before him, dreading their own lessons. The wood felt smooth beneath his touch, worn down by generations of restless hands.

"Attention!" The command cracked through the air. Harald's body responded before his mind registered Major Bergström's entrance, muscle memory from endless drills snapping him upright. The sudden movement sent his pen rolling toward the desk's edge.