Page 8 of The Broken Dawn

"Because every royal prince and man of the Vasa family for six generations has attended Riddarhuset," Freddie said, the familiar refrain sounding hollow even to him. He sighed, coming to sit beside Harald on the narrow bed. "Look, I know it seems impossible now, but you'll find your way. I did."

"You're different," Harald said before he could stop himself. "You're... you."

Freddie's laugh held no humor. "And you're you. Which means you'll approach this differently, but you'll manage." He paused, his expression growing serious. "You have to, Hal," the old family nickname came out soft on his brother's lips.

"Because of Father?" Harald asked, remembering the conversation from the night before.

Freddie nodded slowly. "His health... the doctors are concerned. If something happens⁠—"

"Don't," Harald interrupted, the same plea he'd made the night before. "Please don't."

"I'm trying to protect you," Freddie said, echoing his words from their previous conversation. "I know it's not fair. None of it's fair. But you have to understand⁠—"

"I understand," Harald said flatly. "I always understand."

They sat in silence for a moment, the rain beating against the window like a military drumbeat. Finally, Freddie stood.

"Write to me," he said, "if you need to. It can be hard, but you'll get through it."

Harald nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Freddie paused at the door, looking back at his younger brother—still sitting on the edge of the bed, still looking too young for the uniform he wore. "Hal," he said, quietly. "Just… It's worth it," he said suddenly. "Being careful. Keep things inside. Sometimes... sometimes being quiet means you get to keep the things that matter."

After Freddie left, Harald remained on the bed, listening to the rain and the distant sound of a bugle calling cadets to dinner. Outside his window, Riddarhuset loomed dark and implacable, its towers disappearing into the gathering dusk.

He thought of all the rules and regulations Christian had outlined, the endless ways he could fail to measure up. He thought of his father's declining health and what that might mean for his future. He thought of four years stretching ahead of him in this place where every minute was scheduled, every action scrutinized.

But mostly, he thought of Freddie's parting words. Being quiet means you get to keep the things that matter.

The problem was, Harald wasn't sure what mattered to him anymore—or if anything even did.

August 22, 1939

The next morning, the Academy's courtyard echoed with shouted commands and the sound of boots on cobblestones in the thin morning light. Harald stood at attention, trying not to fidget as Christian circled him, each step measured and precise. His cousin's new authority sat on his shoulders like his Cadet Lieutenant epaulettes, gleaming and heavy.

"Oh dear, cousin." Christian's voice carried just far enough to draw attention from nearby cadets. "Where are your company patches?"

Hal's stomach dropped. The royal tailor had assured him everything was in order, had spent weeks seeing to even the smallest detail "I⁠—".

"You can't possibly attend evening formation without them." Christian's concern would have seemed genuine to anyone who didn't know him. "That would be a serious violation of the dress code." His smile sharpened. "And as senior cadet, I would hate to have to cite my own cousin on his first full day."

"Surely there's—" Hal asked, a bit lost.

"The laundry." Christian's eyes gleamed. "Missus Eliasberg, the school laundress, handles all uniform matters. Though I'm sure His Highness can find his own way below stairs?"

The last part was clearly a challenge. Harald straightened his spine. "Of course."

"Excellent." Christian checked his watch. "Evening formation is at eighteen hundred hours. I trust you'll have this sorted by then?"

It wasn't really a question. Harald nodded once, sharp and controlled the way he'd been taught. A prince never shows uncertainty in public. He turned and immediately made his way back to his room to fetch his jackets, and find his way downstairs.

The stairs to the laundry led down into warmth and steam, to the smell of soap and starch. The rhythmic thud of pressing machines echoed off stone walls, and voices murmured in what might have been Yiddish.

Harald hesitated in the doorway. A woman in a practical dress was directing operations like a general commanding troops, while a figure in rolled shirtsleeves managed one of the massive pressing machines with casual competence.

"—need those officers' uniforms done by—" The woman broke off, noticing him. "Your Highness! Come in, come in. You'll let all the heat out."

She didn't curtsey. Didn't even pause in her work. Just gestured him forward with the same authority she'd been using to direct her staff.