Page 43 of The Broken Dawn

"She's in danger," Sarah said finally, her voice tight with worry. "But when I try to talk to her..."

"She won't listen to me either." Jakob pushed his bowl away, appetite gone. "But whatever Christian's telling her, it's not just flattery. He's using her somehow."

Sarah's hands trembled as she gathered the barely-touched bowls. "What do we do?"

"I'll talk to her again," Jakob promised. "And I'll keep an eye on Christian at the academy."

Sarah nodded, but her expression remained troubled. "Be careful, Yasha. Men like that... they're dangerous when challenged."

"I know, Mama." He squeezed her hand. "I'm being careful."

Later, after helping his mother clean up, Jakob stood in the small sitting room, studying the family photographs arranged on the wall. His father in his professor's robes, a figure of authority and intellect; it felt like Chaim had always looked past him to those ideals. His mother on their wedding day, young and hopeful—a stark contrast to the weary woman he knew now. Rachel as a toddler, all curls and mischief, vibrant in a way that often made him smile. And there, in the corner, the oldest photograph—his father in Russia, surrounded by students, his fierce gaze commanding respect.

Chaim Eliasberg had devoted his life to justice and the pursuit of knowledge, yet Jakob couldn't shake the feeling of abandonment. While his father had chased lofty ideals, he had left his family to shoulder the burdens of the farm, thrusting responsibility on Jakob's young shoulders. What choices would Chaim have made if he were here now, confronted with the realities Jakob faced? Would he have stood up to Christian directly, risking everything as he did in his lectures? Or would he have devised a more philosophical approach, one Jakob would struggle to understand?

Jakob's thoughts simmered with frustration. He wanted to honor his father's legacy, to protect his family—yet he longed for his father’s understanding of the man he was becoming, a soldier willing to fight for those he loved, not a scholar content to debate in safety.

The front door opened quietly, and Jakob turned to see Rachel slipping back inside, the new scarf wrapped around her neck despite the mild evening.

Their eyes met across the dim room. For a moment, Jakob saw a flicker of the little sister he remembered—uncertain, seeking approval. Then her expression hardened, and she hurried past him toward the stairs.

"Rachel," he called softly.

She paused, one hand on the banister.

"Whatever he's promised you," Jakob said, "whatever he's made you believe—Christian Vasa will always choose himself first. Remember that."

Rachel didn't turn around. "You don't know him like I do," she said, her voice small but defiant.

"No," Jakob agreed. "But I know men like him. And when the time comes to choose between what's right and what's easy—they always choose easy."

Rachel hesitated, and for a moment Jakob thought she might say more. Then she continued up the stairs, her footsteps fading into silence.

The candles burned lower, casting long shadows across the empty room, and Jakob wondered if this was how Harald felt sometimes—watching his family pulled in different directions by forces beyond his control, trying desperately to hold them all together.

September 16, 1939

Jakob hesitated at the library doors, the weight of his mathematics texts heavy in his arms. It was a Saturday and the school was quiet, most of the cadets having scattered to enjoy the last of the fall sunshine. He'd been avoiding this room since... since that night. But with Rachel in and out of the house at all hours and tensions climbing between her and their mother, he needed quiet and calm and to lose himself in the logic of mathematics for a few hours.

He pushed open the door and froze. Harald sat alone at the table, hunched over a stack of papers. He looked awful - skin pale, dark circles stamped under his eyes like bruises. His golden hair, usually so perfectly styled, stuck up in wild directions as if he'd been running his hands through it for hours.

Something in Jakob's chest twisted painfully at the sight.

When Harald looked up, there was a flash of something in those tired eyes - relief? longing? - that made Jakob's breath catch. But it was gone so quickly he must have imagined it. Princes didn't pine after farm boys, no matter how many kisses they'd shared in haylofts.

Jakob's feet moved before his brain could stop them.

"You look like hell, Your Highness."

"Jakob." Harald's voice was rough, like he hadn't used it in days. "I... yes, I suppose I do." He straightened slightly, trying to smooth down his wayward hair. The gesture was so unconsciously princely that Jakob had to bite back a smile.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," Jakob said, already stepping back. "I just needed somewhere quiet to work."

"Stay." The word came out too quick, too desperate. Harald flushed, then added more carefully, "Please. I'd welcome the company."

Don't, Jakob told himself firmly. Don't get pulled back in. But Harald looked so tired, so alone, and Jakob's resolve crumbled like week-old bread.

He settled into the chair across from Harald, their knees almost brushing beneath the table. "Have you slept at all since..." Since I left you in that hayloft? "...since you were called home?"