Page 81 of The Broken Dawn

The voices pressed in from all sides, a suffocating wall of demands and expectations. Hal could feel his collar growing tighter with each word.

"ENOUGH!"

The room came to an immediate silence around him. Every face turned to stare at him - ministers frozen mid-gesture, the Chamberlain's pen hovering above his notebook, his mother's mouth slightly open in shock. Even Sigrid had gone completely still beside him.

Christian's head snapped up, his eyes widening slightly—not in shock at the outburst, but with something that looked almost like respect.

Hal's heart hammered in his chest, but he forced himself to stand straighter. To own the silence he'd created. "My brother—" his voice caught for just a moment before he steadied it. "and your Crown Prince, is dead. That is where our focus should be. We will assure that our nation honors him properly. We will bury him with all solemn dignity, in the church where his ancestors rest. And until that is done, none of you will talk to me about quarters or legislation or—" his gaze cut to his mother "—partners."

He could see Queen Margreta drawing breath to object, her spine stiffening with familiar outrage. But something in his stance, in his refusal to look away, made her pause. Made her actually step back.

"Harald is right." Sigrid's clear voice cut through the tension. She rose to stand beside her brother, her slender frame somehow radiating steel. "Freddie deserves our full attention and respect. Not paperwork and politics." Her green eyes flashed as she surveyed the room. "I'm certain my cousin agrees."

All eyes turned to Christian, who seemed momentarily startled at being addressed. He swallowed hard, his composure slipping for just an instant before he nodded. "The Crown Prince—" his voice cracked slightly, "—Freddie deserves nothing less than our complete devotion in these days of mourning."

The realization of power washed over Hal like a wave. He could do this. He could make them listen. He could make them stop. He could protect the things that mattered to him.

"We will bury my brother with honor. When that is done, I will return to Riddarhuset," he continued, his voice stronger now, "to say my farewells and receive the condolences of my fellow cadets. Only then will I take up my duties as Crown Prince. Until that time, anything that isn't about honoring Freddie can wait."

"Darling," his mother said, her voice honey-sweet with false concern. "There's no need for you to return to that drafty old school. We can have someone collect your things, and the Commandant can arrange⁠—"

"No." Hal didn't raise his voice this time. He didn't need to. "Freddie was their Crown Prince too. They deserve the chance to mourn him properly."

"Harald." That edge of steel was creeping into her voice now. "The palace needs you here. The people need to see⁠—"

"The people need to see that their future king honors his commitments." Hal kept his voice level, measured. "Those cadets at Riddarhuset will be the commanders of Sweden's armies someday. My commanders." He met his mother's gaze steadily. "They need to know that their future sovereign understands duty and loyalty go both ways."

From the corner of his eye, Hal saw Christian watching him with an unreadable expression—calculation, grief, and something else mingled in his gaze. His cousin's fingers brushed absently against a small pin on his lapel—a riding medal Freddie had given him years ago. The gesture was so unconscious, so genuine in its grief, that Hal felt a momentary pang of sympathy.

He saw the calculation in his mother's eyes, the moment she realized he wasn't just being sentimental. This wasn't about his grief - this was about securing the loyalty of Sweden's future military leaders.

Her lips thinned with displeasure, but she nodded. Just once.

It was a small victory. But it felt enormous.

November 25, 1939

Freddie lay in state in the Old Cathedral, Storkyrkan, across from the royal palace. In the night, free of the visitors who had thronged in during the day, the air was still and heavy with the scent of funeral lilies, their white petals gleaming like ghosts in the candlelight. Four tall candles marked the corners of Freddie's coffin, their flames perfectly still in the airless room. Hal stood at attention, as he had every day of the mourning week, the collar of his suit digging into his neck as he maintained his position at the head of his brother's casket.

Three hours into his vigil, his legs ached and his eyes burned, but he welcomed the physical discomfort. It gave him something to focus on besides the crushing weight in his chest, the void where his brother should be.

His mind kept drifting to Jakob—to the warmth of his hands, the quiet strength in his voice when he'd promised to wait. Hal had left him standing in that corridor at Riddarhuset, had driven away without a proper goodbye. Now, surrounded by the trappings of royal mourning, that moment felt like it belonged to another life entirely.

I need you here, he thought desperately, as if Jakob might somehow hear him across the miles. I didn't know how lost I would feel without you.

The soft click of the chapel door broke the silence. Sigrid slipped in, her black dress making her seem like a shadow moving through the flickering light. She'd pulled her golden hair back in a severe knot, her face pale and drawn with exhaustion.

"You should be resting," Hal whispered, his voice sounding unnaturally loud after hours of silence.

Sigrid moved to stand opposite him, her hand resting lightly on the polished wood of the coffin. "So should you." Her fingers traced the edge of the Swedish flag draped across it. "But I couldn't sleep knowing he was here alone."

"He's not alone," Hal said automatically. "I'm here."

"I know." Sigrid's smile was sad. "You are always there, in the shadows. Even when the rest of us forget..." She trailed off, swallowing hard.

The unspoken truth hung between them. Even when Freddie had pulled away, drawn into Christian's orbit and then their mother's web of ambition and duty, Hal had remained steadfastly loyal. Had never stopped looking up to his golden brother, never stopped trying to make him proud.

"Do you remember when he carved his initials in the church pew?" Sigrid asked suddenly, her voice soft with memory.