Page 13 of The Broken Dawn

"Your Highness!" A cadet in his year whose name Harald had already forgotten waved from a table near the windows. "We saved you a seat!"

Of course they had. The table was perfectly positioned— the closest first year table to the upper-classmen, visible enough to be prestigious, far enough to maintain proper distance. Everything at Riddarhuset was about proper distance.

Harald ate mostly in silence, making proper murmurs and one-word responses, letting the conversation at the table swirl around him without really following it, until the meal had finished and he was mercifully freed from having to make small talk as his stomach churned.

As he cleared the doorway between the dining hall and the corridor, a voice rung out calling his name.

"Your Highness."

Harald turned at Commandant Lindquist's voice, grateful for the interruption. The older man stood in the doorway, posture and dress uniform correct.

"Might I have a word?"

Christian came up behind Harald, his hand tight on Harald's shoulder. "Good afternoon, Sir, we were just⁠—"

"Alone, if you please, Cadet Lieutenant Vasa." Lindquist's tone was pleasant, but his eyes weren't. "A matter concerning His Highness's schedule."

They walked together to the Commandant's office, where dark wood paneling and portraits of decorated officers watched their conversation like silent judges. The leather chairs creaked as Harald sat, the scent of polish and old books filling his nostrils. He kept his spine straight, his face composed, even as his mind raced. "Yes, sir."

"Your Highness." Commandant Lindquist clasped his hands behind his back, the picture of military authority. His medals caught the afternoon light filtering through the leaded windows. "I trust you're finding your first day pleasant?"

"I am, sir," Harald said evenly, though his collar suddenly felt too tight.

Lindquist paced behind his desk, boots clicking against the hardwood floor. "Your cousin, Cadet Lieutenant Vasa, has raised some concerns on your behalf." His voice softened, taking on an almost paternal tone that made Harald's skin crawl. "About the behavior of a certain fellow cadet in your classes."

"I don't understand, sir," Harald said, though a cold weight settled in his stomach.

"Come now, Your Highness. Don't be naive." Lindquist's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Christian was quite concerned about the... disrespect shown to you in Philosophy of Military Leadership. Here at Riddarhuset, we have a duty to maintain order, to show that proper hierarchy still means something. Especially in these uncertain times."

Something twisted in his chest at the thought of Jakob gone. Of those blue eyes and ink-stained fingers and brilliant mind just... disappeared. Of never again seeing that almost-smile when Jakob made a particularly cutting point. Of empty seats in Philosophy of Military Leadership and⁠—

Oh.

Oh.

Harald's breath caught as several things suddenly became terrifyingly clear. The way his eyes kept finding Jakob in every room. The way his heart had raced when Jakob had challenged Christian. The way he'd been unable to focus on anything else all day.

"Your Highness?" Lindquist prompted, watching him too closely.

Harald straightened, forcing his face into the neutral mask he'd perfected at court. "I'm merely surprised that such a minor academic disagreement would warrant administrative attention."

Lindquist's brows rose. "No one is suggesting expulsion. Merely... reassessing Cadet Eliasberg's suitability for advanced courses. His academic scores are impressive, but Riddarhuset requires more than mere intelligence. We require understanding of one's proper place."

The unfairness of it burned in Harald's throat. "He's the brightest student in the class."

"That's hardly the point, is it?" Lindquist sighed, settling into his leather chair. "Your Highness, you're young. I understand that you want things to be fair. But you have responsibilities that go beyond personal feelings. Your very presence here sets an example. And allowing a student to attend on charity—especially one of his background—only to have them publicly challenge royal authority undermines the traditions that this institution stands for."

"His background?" Harald felt heat rising to his face. "You mean his academic excellence?"

Lindquist's expression hardened. "I mean his questionable loyalties. He's the son of a professor of political philosophy from Moscow. His father's political writings were quite... provocative. And with the current situation in Europe⁠—"

"Commandant?"

They both turned. Jakob stood in the doorway, a stack of papers in his arms. His uniform was, as always, impeccable despite its wear, and his face was carefully blank, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the forms. How much had he heard?

"Cadet Eliasberg." Lindquist's tone cooled several degrees. "We're in a private meeting."

"Excuse me, sir. The secretary asked me to deliver these forms." Jakob's accent was more pronounced than it had been in class, a sure sign of his discomfort. "I didn't mean to interrupt."