Page 6 of The Broken Dawn

The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Harald alone with his rewritten letter and the growing certainty that his nightmare was just beginning.

Outside his window, Stockholm glittered in the darkness, indifferent to the small surrenders happening in palace studies. Harald picked up his pen and began copying Christian's words in his own handwriting, each letter a small death of the future he'd dared to imagine.

By morning, the letter would be posted. By next week, it would reach Oxford. And the Dean of the faculty would file away the correspondence from a promising young student who had chosen duty over dreams, never knowing that the choice hadn't been his to make at all.

Chapter 2

August 21, 1939

The car slowed as it approached the imposing gates of Riddarhuset Academy on the grounds of Ekolsund castle outside of Uppsala, the gravel crunching beneath its wheels like bones. Hal straightened his already straight uniform collar, the stiff material biting into his neck. Beside him, Karl Fredrick sat relaxed in his naval uniform, gold braid catching the weak August sunlight.

"Stop fidgeting," Freddie said, not unkindly. "You look fine."

Hal dropped his hands to his lap. "I wasn't⁠—"

"You were." Freddie's smile softened the correction. "Remember what Father says—a prince's uniform should look like it grew on him."

As if Hal could forget any of his parents' countless maxims on proper behavior. He turned to stare out the window as the car passed beneath the wrought-iron arch bearing Riddarhuset's motto, Honore et Ferro – By Honor and Iron and through an avenue of beech trees.

The academy loomed before them between the trees, sitting like a hulking troll on the raised circle of land, the east and west wings forming arms which Harald felt would crush his soul if they ever fully embraced him. The building itself was a low, three story former palace, constructed of dark stone. The steep slate roof with its peaked lines and towers looked forbidding in the light of a sky heavy with unshed rain. Rows of perfectly trimmed hedges lined the main drive, their military precision a warning of what awaited inside. Hal had seen photographs, of course, had listened to Freddie's stories, but nothing prepared him for the weight of the place—history and expectation pressing down like a physical force.

"There's Christian," Freddie nodded toward the main steps where their cousin stood in his senior cadet uniform, brass buttons gleaming. Even from a distance, Hal could see Christian's spine was ramrod straight.

The car stopped. A footman rushed to open Freddie's door first—protocol even here—while Hal took a final, steadying breath. By the time his own door opened, he had arranged his features into what Sigrid called his "public prince face," bland and pleasant and revealing nothing.

Christian descended the steps with measured strides. "Your Royal Highness," he said to Freddie, bowing carefully. "Welcome back to Riddarhuset."

"Cadet Lieutenant Vasa," Freddie returned with equal formality, though his eyes danced with amusement at the ceremony. "Thank you for receiving us."

Christian turned to Hal, and something in his smile made Hal's stomach tighten. "Cousin," he said, the familiar address somehow making Hal feel smaller rather than welcome. "Ready to become a Riddarhuset man?"

Before Hal could answer, the great doors swung open and a tall, thin man with a military bearing, wearing the uniform of the commandant of the school emerged, flanked by several faculty members.

"Your Royal Highnesses," the Commandant, whose name tag identified him as "Commandant Lindquist," bowed deeply. "What an honor to welcome you both to our humble institution. Crown Prince Karl Fredrick, how good to see you again. And Prince Harald—" his pale eyes assessed Harald with unsettling thoroughness "—we have prepared for your arrival most carefully."

Freddie stepped forward, every inch the Crown Prince now. "Commandant, may I present my brother, Prince Harald Edvard. He comes to Riddarhuset eager to uphold the traditions of both our family and your esteemed academy."

Harald forced himself to meet the Commandant's gaze, to keep his shoulders squared despite the weight of his new uniform jacket. "I'm honored to be here, Commandant Lindquist."

"The honor is ours, Your Highness." Lindquist gestured toward the entrance. "If you'll follow me, we've prepared a small reception before showing you to your quarters."

The "small reception" turned out to be a lineup of every significant faculty member, each waiting to be introduced to the newest royal addition. Harald shook hands until his fingers ached, struggling to keep track of names and positions as Christian hovered at his elbow, occasionally supplying details in a murmur just loud enough for others to hear.

"Professor Bergman teaches military history. His examinations are legendary—most first-years fail the initial one." A pause. "But I'm sure you'll manage, cousin."

And later: "Professor Nilsson oversees physical training. You'll want to prepare yourself—the first month breaks most new cadets."

By the time they reached the end of the receiving line, Harald's collar felt tighter than ever, and the first drops of rain had begun to fall. The Commandant consulted his pocket watch.

"We should proceed with the tour before the weather worsens. Cadet Lieutenant Vasa, perhaps you would do the honors, as Prince Harald's family?"

Christian's smile widened. "It would be my privilege, Commandant."

Freddie caught Harald's eye with a look that said I'm sorry more clearly than words, and Harald realized with a sinking feeling that here, even the Crown Prince deferred to the academy's hierarchy. Christian, as a senior cadet officer, outranked Harald completely.

"This way, cousin," Christian said, gesturing toward the main hallway. "Let me show you your new home."

The tour began in the Great Hall, a cavernous space dominated by high-vaulted ceilings and ancient banners bearing regimental crests. Their footsteps echoed on the stone floor, and Harald felt the weight of centuries pressing down.