Page 2 of The Broken Dawn

Harald's throat felt tight. "It's only three years. It's not permanent⁠—"

"Isn't it?" Queen Margreta leaned forward slightly. "Three years studying dead languages and dusty manuscripts while your brother learns statecraft, while your cousin Christian masters military strategy, while the world reshapes itself around us. Three years of becoming irrelevant. Invisible."

"That's not—" Harald started.

"Harald." Gustav's voice was gentle but firm. "Son, I understand the appeal. I truly do. But your mother does have a point about timing. Perhaps in a few years, when things are more settled⁠—"

"In a few years, the opportunity will be gone." Harald pulled out the small cloth bound book, Tolkien's signature visible on the title page. "Professor Tolkien sent this. He wrote that he rarely takes special interest in undergraduate students, but my essay showed promise he hasn't seen in years."

Queen Margreta glanced at the book dismissively. "A children's story about dragons and treasure. How very... appropriate."

"It's about heroism," Harald said desperately. "About ordinary people finding extraordinary courage when everything they love is threatened. About⁠—"

"About fantasy." Queen Margreta's voice cut across his words like a blade. "About escaping into make-believe when reality becomes uncomfortable." She reached across the table, her hand hovering over the letter. "May I?"

Harald hesitated, then slid the papers toward her. She read Tolkien's note with the same expression she might use to examine a mildly interesting insect.

"How very... illuminating. Is this the sort of subject matter they encourage at Oxford? Young men exploring complex loyalties?"

The way she said it made Harald's skin crawl. There was nothing inappropriate about his essay, nothing that warranted that tone, but somehow she'd made it sound sordid.

"It's literary analysis," he said stiffly.

"I'm sure it is." Queen Margreta folded the letter carefully, her movements deliberate. "Harald, darling, let me be perfectly clear. You are not going to Oxford. You are going to Riddarhuset Military Academy, where you will learn practical skills that will serve Sweden, not theoretical nonsense that will serve no one."

"But I⁠—"

"Furthermore," she continued smoothly, "Riddarhuset is expecting you next Monday. We confirmed your enrollment months ago."

Harald felt the blood drain from his face. "Months ago? But you never⁠—"

"Didn't we mention it?" Queen Margreta's expression was perfectly innocent. "How careless of us. Though I suppose it doesn't matter now, does it? You'll need time to pack anyway."

"You can't just—" Harald's voice cracked slightly. "You can't just decide my entire future without talking to me."

"Can't we?" Queen Margreta tilted her head. "You're twenty, darling, not forty. Still quite young enough to benefit from parental guidance." Her smile sharpened. "And royal enough to require it."

Gustav cleared his throat, the sound rough and wet. "Perhaps Harald could defer for another year⁠—"

"The academy doesn't offer deferrals," Queen Margreta said firmly. "And frankly, Gustav, letting him wait will only make the transition more difficult. Better to address these romantic notions of his before they become too deeply rooted."

Harald stared at his mother, finally understanding the full scope of what had just happened. This wasn't a discussion. It wasn't even an argument. It was the summary execution of his own dreams, carried out while he sat helpless at his own breakfast table.

Her voice was gentle, almost loving. "Someday you'll thank us for this, Harald. Someday you'll understand that real leadership requires real sacrifice. Now then, we should discuss arrangements for Monday. Your cousin Christian will be returning to the academy as well for his final year —won't it be lovely to have family support during your adjustment?"

Harald sat frozen as his mother swept from the room, taking with her the last tangible proof of the future he'd dared to imagine. Across the table, Gustav coughed again, his handkerchief coming away stained with red.

"I'm sorry," Gustav whispered, but whether he was apologizing for the blood or the betrayal, Harald couldn't tell.

Outside, the morning sun continued to shine, indifferent to the small dreams dying in the breakfast room of a palace.

Later that same afternoon, Harald trooped into the castle's blue salon accompanied by his sister, brother, and their cousin Christian. The room had been transformed into a makeshift radio studio, thick carpets laid down to muffle any noise from the ancient floors and furniture rearranged to accommodate the broadcasting equipment, photographers and other press.

His mother stood at the center of it all like a general commanding troops, wearing a pale blue suit but directing the final preparations with the firm gestures and snapped commands of a Field Marshall.

"Harald, your tie is crooked. Fix it," she commanded without looking at him, her attention focused on the radio engineer adjusting levels. "And do something about that expression. No one will be in the right frame of mind with that look on your face. This is a celebration of family tradition, not a funeral."

Harald's fingers moved automatically to his collar, though the tie was already perfectly straight. Across the room, Christian, who usually didn't attend these events, lounged in his school dress uniform, brass buttons gleaming, watching the proceedings with that familiar air of smug satisfaction.