Page 17 of The Broken Dawn

Jakob leaned against the counter, watching the last of the soapy water swirl away. His mother was right, of course. But managing meant more than just getting by. It meant making sure Rachel didn't lose herself in books and dreams like their father had. It meant keeping their small farm running so his mother didn't have to take on more washing. It meant studying twice as hard at Riddarhuset to prove he deserved his place there, while pretending not to notice the talk about the Jewish laundresses son who didn't belong.

"Just... promise me you won't work yourself to exhaustion," Sarah touched his arm, her work-roughened fingers gentle. "We need you healthy more than we need a new barn roof or Rachel's satchel fixed.

Jakob nodded, though they both knew it was a promise he couldn't really keep. Someone had to keep the farm running, help Rachel with her homework, and make sure there was food on the table. That someone had always been him.

He'd figure it out. He always did. But first, he had artillery calculations to complete for tomorrow's class – problems he hadn't quite managed to finish that afternoon. From behind the curtain around her bed, he could hear Rachel humming their father's favorite niggun as she read. Some things, Jakob thought, were better left unmanaged.

August 25, 1939

The dew-soaked grass was slippery under Harald's boots as he made his way to the firing range in the pre-dawn darkness for the first Riflery exam of the year. The air was starting to get a chill in the morning, just enough to make everything feel fresh and new. Still, he gave a little shiver, which was likely just his deep dread of the morning's exercises making him tremble.

The Mauser rifles waited in their rack, steel gray against the wooden stand, their barrels dull and black in the pale light. Harald's stomach clenched at the sight. Freddie's voice echoed in his memory: "Come on, Hal, you're thinking too much. Just pull the trigger!" Easy for Freddie to say. His older brother had always made everything look effortless, especially shooting.

Christian's voice cut through the morning stillness. "Gentlemen, form up!"

Harald took his place in line with the other cadets, trying not to notice how Jakob stood ramrod straight two spaces down, eyes forward, every inch the proper soldier. Nothing like the boy who'd spoken with him in the library yesterday. The memory of that easy conversation made the formal distance between them now feel like another weight pressing down on Hal's chest.

The sun crept over the horizon as Christian demonstrated the "proper form" for what felt like the hundredth time. His cousin moved with practiced grace, settling the rifle against his shoulder as if it were an extension of his body. "Notice the stance, gentlemen. Feet shoulder-width apart, weight slightly forward."

Harald's attention drifted to where Jakob was methodically checking his weapon. His movements were careful, almost tender as he ran the cleaning cloth along the barrel. There was something mesmerizing about the quiet confidence in those hands⁠—

"Your Highness?" Christian's voice snapped like a whip. "Perhaps you'd care to demonstrate for the class?"

Harald stepped forward, his cheeks burning. Christian knew how terrible he was at shooting, why would he single him out like this? The rifle felt awkward and heavy in his hands, the metal ice-cold even through his gloves. He tried to mirror Christian's stance, but the weapon seemed to fight him, refusing to settle properly against his shoulder.

The first shot went wide. So did the second. By the third, Harald's shoulder ached from the kick, and he could feel Christian's smirk without having to look.

"I see some things never change, cousin," Christian murmured, just loud enough for Harald to hear. "Still can't hit the broad side of a barn."

A quiet voice cut through Harald's humiliation. "Permission to assist, Your Highness?"

Your Highness. Yesterday it had been Harald, soft and almost shy in the library's shadows. Harald wanted to snap at the formality, but Jakob's expression was perfectly, precisely neutral as he waited for permission. Only his eyes, fixed somewhere over Harald's left shoulder, betrayed any tension.

"Of course, Cadet Eliasberg." Harald tried to match that careful formality, but his voice came out rougher than intended.

Jakob moved behind him, and suddenly Harald couldn't remember how to breathe, much less shoot. A gloved hand settled at his waist, applying gentle pressure. "Shift your weight forward, like this." Jakob's voice was low, meant only for Harald's ears. His breath was warm against Harald's neck, a contrast to the morning air.

"Shoulder relaxed," Jakob murmured. His hands moved up, adjusting Harald's grip on the rifle. Was it Harald's imagination, or did those fingers tremble slightly as they brushed his? "You're fighting the kick. Let the rifle become part of you."

Part of him. Right. As if Harald could focus on anything except the solid presence at his back, the way Jakob's chest brushed against him with each breath. He forced himself to stare down the range at the target, trying to remember what they were supposed to be doing.

"Now," Jakob's voice had dropped even lower, sending a shiver down Harald's spine that had nothing to do with the cold. "Breathe out slowly and squeeze the trigger between heartbeats."

Harald squeezed. The rifle cracked. The target showed a hit, not anywhere close to dead center, but on the paper at least. Respectable—far better than his previous attempts.

"Well done, Your Highness." Was that a hint of warmth in Jakob's voice? But he was already stepping back, resuming his proper distance, and Harald felt the morning cold rush in to fill the space he'd left.

"Fascinating technique, Eliasberg." Christian's voice dripped with something that wasn't quite sarcasm. His eyes moved between them, considering. "Where did you learn to shoot like that?"

Jakob's expression didn't change, but Harald noticed his shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly. "Rabbits, sir. In my mother's garden. They were eating her vegetables, and we couldn't afford to lose the crop."

Distaste flickered across Christian's face—distaste, perhaps, at this reminder of Jakob's common origins. Or something else. His cousin's gaze lingered on the space between Harald and Jakob, still charged with something Harald refused to name.

"How resourceful." Christian's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Since you're so eager to offer instruction, Eliasberg, you can spend your free period this afternoon helping Sergeant Nilsson clean the armory. All of it. I'm sure your expertise will be invaluable in ensuring every weapon is properly maintained."

Harald opened his mouth to protest—Jakob had only been following proper protocol, after all—but Jakob spoke first.

"Yes, sir," he said, with parade-ground precision in his voice. Only the slight whitening of his knuckles on his rifle betrayed any reaction.