Page 20 of The Broken Dawn

"I believe..." Harald's voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat. "I believe friction is like... swimming against a current." The analogy came to him suddenly, memories of summer afternoons in the archipelago with Freddie. "You can be the strongest swimmer in Sweden, but if you ignore the current, you'll exhaust yourself fighting it. The best approach isn't to overpower it through sheer force—it's to understand it, work with it where possible, and conserve your strength for when you truly need to fight against it."

A moment of silence followed. Harald felt heat creeping up his neck.

"An apt analogy," the Major said finally. "The mark of effective leadership isn't eliminating friction—it's understanding it well enough to withstand it. Knowing when to push through and when to adapt."

Christian's whisper cut in from the desk behind him, smooth as silk. "How very philosophical, cousin. Though I suppose that's to be expected from someone who prefers theory to practice."

Heat crept up Harald's neck at Christian's jab, but before he could respond, the Major's voice cut through the tension. "Friction applies not just to battlefield tactics, but to resource management." The professor's fingers traced along the red pins marking Sweden's iron deposits. "What we discuss today isn't merely academic."

"One of Sweden's primary exports - and, possibly the most important tactical export in the current economic climate - is our high quality iron ore." The Major explained.

The wooden pointer clacked against the map, following railway lines south from Kiruna to Narvik and Luleå. "Note these routes carefully. Sixty percent of our ore travels to Germany through Narvik, while Britain receives most of their share through Luleå." Harald's gaze followed the lines, remembering his father's increasingly tense discussions about shipping routes.

"Sweden currently provides Germany with ninety percent of their iron ore imports." The Major's words fell heavy in the silent classroom. "Last year alone, we exported ten million tons." Numbers scratched across the blackboard - production quotas, shipping manifests, the lifeblood of modern warfare reduced to stark white chalk.

Harald's uniform collar felt too tight as he watched those numbers take shape. Each figure represented not just millions of Kroner and Sweden's largest source of hard currency, but also thousands of tons of Swedish iron being transformed into German tanks, guns, ships. His pen pressed hard enough against the paper to tear through, leaving tiny constellations of ink on the page below.

His mind drifted, losing the thread of the conversation for a moment until Christian's voice sliced through the weighted silence. "Surely our duty is clear? Germany has been our most reliable trading partner." His cousin's tone carried that familiar edge of absolute certainty. "We have obligations to our allies."

The sunlight catching the brass buttons of Christian's uniform suddenly reminded Harald of shell casings. He could feel Jakob's tension radiating from the desk ahead, see the white-knuckled grip the other cadet had on his pencil. The classroom felt airless, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out by those damning statistics.

"Obligations?" The word escaped Harald before he could stop it, tasting bitter on his tongue. The entire class turned to stare, but he couldn't seem to halt the words spilling out. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

Christian's smile turned wolfish. "Come now, cousin. Surely you're not suggesting we abandon our traditional trading relationships over mere political disagreements?" The false concern in his voice made Harald's teeth ache. "That would be terribly short-sighted."

The Major cleared his throat, tapping his pointer against the map with sharp, staccato beats. "Gentlemen, let's focus on the tactical implications." But Harald barely heard him over the rushing in his ears, his mind racing through implications he'd been trying desperately not to consider.

Red pins dotted the map like drops of blood, each one representing thousands of tons of Swedish iron being forged into weapons. Harald's fingers cramped around his pen as he imagined those weapons turning against their neighbors, against civilians, against everything his father had always taught him about honor and duty. The morning sun suddenly felt cold against his skin.

Harald's gaze met Jakob's as the other cadet half-turned in his seat. Something fierce and unspoken burned in those blue eyes, a silent understanding that made Harald's chest tight. The morning sun caught the line of Jakob's jaw, clenched against whatever words he was holding back. Christian's voice faded to a distant drone as Harald struggled to break away from that magnetic pull.

The Major's pointer cracked against his desk. "Your assignment - analyze the strategic implications of Sweden's iron trade routes. Consider both economic and military factors." Chalk dust swirled in the sunbeams as he wrote the due date on the board. "Five pages, due Monday. Dismissed."

The scrape of chairs against wooden floors filled the air as cadets rose in unison, a symphony of starched uniforms and polished boots. Harald watched Jakob gather his books, those capable hands making even that simple task look deliberate and graceful. The formation took shape with practiced ease - senior cadets first, then juniors, each row filing out in strict order of rank and seniority.

The late autumn sun had already dipped behind Riddarhuset's gray stone walls as Harald took his place in the formation outside the dining hall. Second-year cadets lined up by merit behind the seniors, their brass buttons gleaming in the lamplight.

Through the leaded windows, crystal chandeliers cast warm light across the hall's dark wood paneling. Harald caught glimpses of white tablecloths and silver place settings as the massive oak doors swung open. The Commandant's adjutant stood at attention, checking each cadet's uniform with critical precision.

"Forward, march."

Boot heels clicked in unison across the polished floor. Harald kept his eyes fixed ahead as they filed to their assigned tables. Before he could move toward the first-year table, Christian's voice cut through the settling murmur.

"Harald." Christian's tone carried just enough authority to stop Harald mid-step. "Join us at the senior table tonight. After all, your tactical analysis this morning was quite impressive."

Harald felt every eye in the dining hall turn toward him. Protocol demanded he take his place with his year-mates—Jakob among them—but Christian's invitation felt more like a challenge. "That's kind of you, but I should follow protocol⁠—"

"Protocol?" Christian's laugh was warm, inclusive, designed for their audience. "Come now, cousin. Surely exceptions can be made for the right sort of cadet. Major Bergström?" He turned to the officer with practiced deference. "I'm sure there's no objection to recognizing exceptional performance?"

Major Bergström nodded stiffly. "Of course not. Prince Harald, please."

The senior cadets' table stretched along the raised dais beneath the portraits of past commanders, while the rest of his year-mates were relegated to the corner below the dais.

They stood at attention behind their chairs, the silence broken only by the soft clink of silver on china as the servers made final adjustments. Major Bergström stepped to the lectern, his voice carrying clearly through the hushed hall: "Benedic, Domine, nos et haec tua dona..."

Harald followed the familiar cadence of the prayer, years of private tutoring making the Latin flow naturally. But his ear caught Jakob's voice among the responses – slightly hesitant, the pronunciation more Russian than Roman, mangling the subjunctive in a way that made Harald's heart twist unexpectedly.

The prayer ended, and Harald waited for Major Bergström's nod before taking his seat, movements synchronized with his fellow cadets. The starched tablecloth crackled as he adjusted his napkin, hyper-aware of Christian settling into the chair beside him. Ahead, steam rose from silver tureens of ärtsoppa, the traditional yellow pea soup's rich aroma carrying hints of salt pork and thyme. Thursday's pea soup was as much a military tradition as the Latin grace, though Harald's appetite had vanished beneath the weight of his cousin's attention.