Page 66 of The Broken Dawn

"Fight back!" Christian snarled, his hair falling in his eyes. "Or are you only brave when that peasant's watching?"

Hal brought his knee up, creating space to shove Christian back. His cousin stumbled but caught himself on the bedpost, lips pulled back in a feral grin. There was something unhinged in his eyes now, a darkness Hal had never noticed before.

"Is this what you did to Rachel?" Hal spat blood from his split lip. "Corner her like⁠—"

Christian's boot caught him in the chest, sending him sprawling. Before Hal could roll away, Christian was on him again, grabbing a fistful of his hair and slamming his head against the floorboards. Stars burst behind Hal's eyes.

"You don't get to judge me," Christian's voice was a ragged whisper against his ear. "You, who can't even throw a proper punch without your scholarship pet holding your hand⁠—"

Hal drove his elbow back, feeling Christian's nose crunch. His cousin howled, grip loosening enough for Hal to twist free. But as he stumbled to his feet, Christian's hand shot out, catching his ankle. Hal went down hard, chin cracking against the floor.

"I won't let you ruin everything," Christian panted, dragging himself up Hal's body like a serpent. His blood dripped onto Hal's collar. "Not you, not some common⁠—"

Hal's fist caught him under the jaw, cutting off the words. But Christian just laughed, the sound wet and terrible, before grabbing Hal's throat with both hands.

"You were supposed to be on my side," Christian's fingers tightened, his weight crushing Hal's chest. "We're blood, Harald. Family. But you chose them⁠—"

Black spots danced at the edges of Hal's vision. He clawed at Christian's hands, but his cousin's grip was fueled by something beyond mere strength. Just as consciousness began to fade, the door burst open.

"Enough!" The shout barely registered as hands grabbed Hal from behind, pulling him away from Christian. Other cadets had rushed in, forming a barrier between the two princes. Hal struggled against the restraining arms, his chest heaving, vision blurred with sweat and fury. Across the room, Christian wiped blood from his mouth, his eyes burning with a hatred so pure it seemed to scorch the air.

The Commandant appeared in the doorway, his face thunderous. "Cadet Vasa, you will accompany me to the brig immediately. A car has been summoned to return you to Stockholm." His voice left no room for argument. Christian straightened his torn uniform with trembling hands, his gaze never leaving Hal's face as he was escorted from the room.

After the door closed, Hal felt himself sway, adrenaline draining away to leave him hollow and aching. A familiar hand touched his elbow, and he turned to find Jakob standing beside him, eyes dark with concern. "Let me take you back to your room," Jakob murmured, his voice low enough that only Hal could hear. "You need to sit down before you fall down."

Jakob's fingers were gentle as he dabbed at the cut above Hal's eye. "Hold still," he murmured. "It needs⁠—"

A knock at the door made them all freeze. Rachel, dressed now in her father's sweater and trousers but still wrapped in Hal's discarded robe, pressed herself further into the corner of Hal's bed. Before anyone could respond, the door swung open to reveal Sarah Eliasberg, her face tight with carefully controlled fury.

"Mama," Jakob started, but Sarah held up one hand, silencing him.

Her eyes swept the room—taking in Hal's battered face, Jakob's protective stance beside him, and finally Rachel, small and vulnerable in clothes that weren't her own. Something in Sarah's expression crumpled before hardening again.

"Get your coat, Rachel." Her voice was eerily calm. "We're going home." She turned that calm gaze on Hal. "I suppose I should thank you, Your Highness, for ensuring my daughter's reputation wasn't completely destroyed. Though it seems your cousin had other ideas about mine."

"I'll go get Rachel's things," Jakob said quietly, his hand lingering on Hal's shoulder for a moment before he stepped away. Rachel scrambled up to follow her brother, clearly eager to escape the weight of her mother's disappointment.

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Hal alone with Sarah. She remained standing, straight-backed and dignified despite the early hour and her obvious exhaustion. Her eyes fixed on the bruises darkening along Hal's jaw.

"Your cousin," she said finally, "has quite the temper."

Hal touched his split lip self-consciously. "Mrs. Eliasberg, I'm so sorry about⁠—"

"No." The word was soft but cut like a blade. "You don't get to apologize for him. Or try to fix this with money, which I can see you thinking about." She moved to the window, gazing out at the academy grounds. "Do you know what the hardest part of coming to this country was, Your Highness?"

The formal address felt like another bruise. Hal stayed silent.

"Learning the etiquette." Sarah's voice was distant. "Not the physical acts — we had that in Russia. But being in a society which thinks it's so equal and honest and still having to learn when to bow, how low to go, which people deserved which degree of deference." She turned back to him, and there was something terrible in her smile. "My husband never learned. He thought it was different here and that education, intelligence, merit should be enough. But Christian Vasa knew better, didn't he? He knew exactly how far I should bow."

"I don't understand," Hal said, though a cold dread was building in his stomach.

"No," Sarah agreed. "You wouldn't. You've never had to learn the proper depth of a bow."

"The laundry," Sarah continued, "has been in my care for seven years. Seven years of ensuring every uniform was perfect, every collar starched, every button polished. Seven years of pressing creases precisely enough to satisfy even the most demanding cadet." She traced a finger along the windowsill. "But your cousin felt I didn't show proper respect. That I forgot my place."

Hal's throat felt tight. "I'll speak to the Commandant. To my father⁠—"

"Your father?" Sarah's laugh was soft and terrible. "Your father is the King of Sweden, Your Highness. And I am just the woman who washes his son's shirts." She turned to face him fully. "Do you know what Christian said to me, when I objected to how he spoke to my Rachel? He said I should be grateful. That the attention of a member of the royal family was more than a Jewish laundress's daughter could hope for."