Page 19 of The Broken Dawn

Just a glimpse through the dusty glass: golden hair catching the afternoon sun, the glint of light on the buttons of a uniform jacket. Then gone, leaving Jakob staring at his own reflection in the window, sleeves rolled up, gun oil on his hands, cheeks flushed with... what? Anger? Embarrassment?

Something else he couldn't quite name?

The rifle in his hands was a poor distraction from the memory of that glimpse, from the way his heart had jumped at those quiet footsteps. He forced himself through the familiar motions: check the barrel, clean the bolt, oil the action. His fingers moved automatically while his mind betrayed him with questions.

Had Harald—His Highness, damn it—had he meant to be seen? Was he checking on Jakob, or just passing by? Did he feel guilty about this morning, about Christian's petty punishment?

Did he remember how they'd stood, pressed together in the frost-sharp air, Jakob's hands steady on his waist even as his heart hammered against his ribs?

The last rifle came back together under Jakob's hands with a satisfying 'click'. Everything in its proper place, just as it should be. Just as he should be—the charity case who shot rabbits in his mother's garden. He had no business wanting... whatever this was. The prince's focus and attention on him, and more of whatever sparked between them in the library's shadows or in those breathless moments on the range.

He began returning the weapons to their racks, each one set precisely in place. The work had taken hours, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Not when it had given him those few seconds of Harald warm against his chest, those quiet words meant only for each other's ears. Worth it, for that alone.

And that thought, more than anything else Christian could devise as punishment, terrified him.

Chapter 4

August 28, 1939

Harald's boots clicked against the flagstones as he entered the tactics classroom. Sunlight slanted through the leaded windows, catching on brass fixtures and casting long shadows across the worn wooden floor. The classroom smelled of chalk dust and floor polish, decades of military discipline ground into every surface. Row after row of scarred desks, each one positioned to face the instructor's lectern like soldiers on parade.

Jakob sat near the front, his dark head bent over a battered copy of On War. The morning light caught in his curls, turning them almost blue-black. Harald's chest tightened at the sight. Before he could do more than offer a quick smile, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Christian swept in with his usual flourish, a cluster of senior cadets in his wake. His uniform gleamed, every button polished to mirror brightness. "Good morning, cousin," he called, too loud in the quiet room. His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Studying hard, I trust? We wouldn't want you falling behind."

Harald slid into his seat, keeping his expression neutral even as his fingers curled against his thighs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jakob's shoulders tense, though the other cadet didn't look up from his book. The morning suddenly felt colder, despite the sunlight streaming through the windows.

The sharp rap of major's knuckles against the lectern jerked Harald's attention forward. Sunlight caught on the professor's insignia, casting dancing reflections across the chalk-dusted blackboard as he wrote "FRICTION" in bold letters.

Harald's hand cramped around his pen as he scribbled notes, the Major's voice cutting through the stuffy air. "Gentlemen, today we address one of Clausewitz's most critical concepts: friction." The Major underlined the word with three broad strokes. "In simplest terms, friction is why nothing in war ever goes according to plan."

The Major paced before the blackboard, chalk dust floating in the sunbeams. "The simplest tasks—marching troops from one point to another, delivering supplies, maintaining communications—become monumentally difficult under actual combat conditions." He tapped his pointer against the map. "A ten-kilometer march that takes two hours on paper might take eight in reality. A battle plan falls apart at first contact with the enemy."

The words stirred something uncomfortable in Harald's chest—a reminder of his own struggles with the most basic military skills. If he couldn't master drill formations in peacetime, how could he possibly lead men in war?

"Sir," called a voice from the back, "isn't that just poor planning? Surely proper preparation eliminates these issues."

The Major's eyebrows rose. "An interesting perspective, Cadet Rydberg. Anyone care to respond?"

Christian's hand shot up, his voice ringing clear and confident before the Major even acknowledged him. "Friction can be overcome through strong leadership and discipline." Harald's cousin leaned back in his chair, radiating the easy assurance that had always seemed to come so naturally to him. "A commander who drills his men properly and maintains order can anticipate and eliminate these points of failure before they occur."

Several cadets nodded in agreement. Of course Christian would have the textbook answer, delivered with complete confidence. Harald's stomach twisted as he saw the approving looks from the senior cadets.

Jakob's hand shot into the air, and Harald felt a flicker of both dread and anticipation. The Major nodded, and Jakob's accent cut through the murmuring that had followed Christian's statement.

"With respect, Cadet Lieutenant Vasa fundamentally misunderstands Clausewitz." Jakob's words were measured but blunt. "Friction isn't about poor planning or lack of discipline—it's about reality itself. Terrain that looks clear on a map turns out to be muddy or icy. Equipment breaks. Men get tired or scared. No amount of leadership can eliminate these factors entirely."

Christian's shoulders stiffened visibly. Harald could practically see his cousin's hackles rise at being corrected by the school's charity case.

"So what's your solution, Eliasberg?" Christian's voice carried a dangerous edge. "Just accept failure as inevitable?"

Jakob didn't flinch. "Not at all. The solution is to build systems that account for friction rather than pretending we can eliminate it. Redundancies. Contingency plans. Flexibility." He gestured toward the map. "If your only plan requires everything to go perfectly, you've already lost."

"That sounds like you're making excuses for poor execution," another cadet called out. "My father says⁠—"

"Excellent, gentlemen." The Major smiled at them, bringing their attention back front. "This is precisely the debate Clausewitz intended. Both perspectives have merit." His gaze swept the classroom, lingering briefly on Harald. "Prince Harald, you've been quiet. Your thoughts?"

Harald's throat went dry as every head turned toward him. Christian's smirk burned in his peripheral vision, while Jakob's steady gaze held something that might have been encouragement. Or challenge.