Page 65 of The Broken Dawn

"I'm going to go to get her things," Hal said quietly. The space between them seemed both vast and intimate, the unspoken knowledge of Christian's deeper game hanging a counterpoint to the peace that Jakob's presence brought Hal. Rachel's soft sobs were the only sound breaking the silence as Jakob nodded in acknowledgment, his gaze never leaving Hal's face. In that look, Hal saw everything—gratitude, fear, determination, and something else that made his heart quicken despite the horror of the morning.

Christian's door stood shut, the polished brass nameplate gleaming accusingly in the morning light. Hal's fingers shook as he turned the handle, stepping into the private space that still smelled of perfume and betrayal.

Rachel's things were scattered across the room —a hair ribbon draped across a chair, a delicate handkerchief fallen beneath the bed, a small book with her name inscribed on the flyleaf. Hal gathered each item with careful hands, his mind racing with all the things left unsaid in the Commandant's office. The intimacy of touching these personal belongings felt like an invasion, each object a silent testament to Rachel's misplaced trust.

Hal knelt to peer under Christian's bed, spotting a glint of metal—Rachel's hair pins scattered like fallen stars on the polished wooden floor. His fingers had just closed around one when the door swung open behind him. Hal twisted, still crouched, to find Christian standing in the doorway, his face a mask of cold fury.

"Playing chambermaid, Harald? How fitting." Christian's voice dripped with disdain as he strode into the room, tossing his cap onto the desk. "I suppose someone of your... inclinations might enjoy such domestic tasks."

Hal rose slowly, Rachel's hairpin cutting into his palm as his fist clenched. "You've been ordered to pack your things, I hear." He kept his voice deliberately level, though his heart hammered against his ribs. "Seems the Commandant saw through your little performance."

Christian's laugh was hollow, almost wounded. "Of course you'd defend them." He turned to his wardrobe. "The Eliasbergs. Your new protégés."

"This isn't about⁠—"

"No?" Christian's voice stayed measured, but his hands betrayed him as he yanked a uniform from its hanger. "When that girl came crying to you, you rushed to her aid. Just like you've been rushing to her brother's defense all term." He paused, shoulders tight. "Tell me, where was that protective instinct when I needed it?"

Hal stared at his cousin's back, caught off guard by the accusation. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't play naive, Harald. It doesn't suit you." Christian began methodically folding his uniform. "When Uncle Gustav brought me here, when Freddie started pulling away... you just watched. But now?" His lip curled. "Now you're everyone's champion. The people's prince, defending common blood against your own family."

"You're being expelled, not executed," Hal snapped. "And Rachel is seventeen⁠—"

"Seventeen?" Christian whirled to face him. "Older than I was, when your father took me in? When everything I knew was ripped away?" His laugh was bitter. "But I forgot – you were too busy resenting my presence to notice."

"I resented—?" Hal broke off, incredulous. "You took my brother from me!"

"I took nothing." Christian's voice went deadly soft. "Freddie chose me. Because I understood what it meant to be heir to the throne. Unlike you, with your books and your... sensitivity." He spat the word like poison. "And now you've found someone else who indulges your weaknesses. That Jewish boy, playing at being a soldier⁠—"

"Leave Jakob alone." The words came out sharper than Hal intended.

"Why? Because he makes you feel special? Important?" Christian's smile was cruel. "Or is it because he doesn't expect you to be strong? To be what this family needs?"

"What this family needs?" Hal felt something crack inside him. "You don't know the first thing about what this family needs. You're so busy playing the wounded orphan prince⁠—"

"Playing?" Christian's face contorted. "I am the son of Prince Georg! I was meant to stand at Freddie's side, not watch you fumble your way through basic training while that commoner holds your hand!"

"Is that what this is about? Your place in line?" Hal's laugh was harsh. "God, Christian, I never wanted any of this. You're welcome to it⁠—"

"Don't you dare!" Christian hurled his half-packed case aside. "Don't you dare act like this is nothing to you! Some of us understand what it means to be born to this. Some of us know what duty means⁠—"

"Duty?" Hal's voice rose. "Was it duty that made you seduce a seventeen-year-old girl? Or just spite?"

A cup shattered against the wall inches from Hal's head.

Christian's laugh was harsh as broken glass. "Oh, Harald. Always so naive." He moved closer, voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You think you can just give this away? Like it's nothing? Like we're nothing?"

"There is no 'we', Christian." Hal turned toward the door, done with the conversation. "There never was."

The dismissal shook him like a blow. Christian lunged forward, grabbing Hal's shoulder and spinning him around. "Don't you dare walk away from me!" His fingers dug in hard enough to bruise. "I won't be ignored by you. Not again."

Hal tried to shake him off, but Christian's grip was like iron. "Let go⁠—"

"Make me." Christian's face was inches from his, twisted with a fury that had nothing to do with Rachel anymore. "Show me some of that strength you save for defending common blood."

The first punch caught Hal under the ribs, driving the air from his lungs. Training took over as he blocked the second, but Christian had always been the better fighter. They crashed into the wardrobe with a splintering crack, sending books flying. Hal's elbow found Christian's jaw, splitting his lip, while Christian's knee drove up into his stomach.

Hal's back slammed against the desk, papers scattering like startled birds. Christian's weight followed, pinning him there, one hand wrapped in Hal's collar while the other drove repeated blows into his side. Each impact felt calculated, aimed at vulnerable spots their combat instructors had drilled into them.