Page 87 of The Broken Dawn

The question no longer filled him with only dread. As he looked around at the diverse heraldry, at the knights of different nations and eras, he began to see possibilities rather than just constraints. Each of these rulers had faced their own challenges, had made their own choices about how to wear their crowns.

The crown adapts to the king, not the king to the crown.

The thought came to him with sudden clarity as the bell continued its solemn toll. He could feel the weight of centuries in this place, but also their wisdom, their collective example. He didn't have to be Freddie. He didn't have to rule as his brother would have, or as his mother wished him to.

He could be his own kind of king. One who found room for both duty and love. One who drew strength from what others might see as weakness.

The Archbishop spoke the final blessing, his voice echoing in the ancient church. "I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live. And whoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die."

"Amen," came the whispered response.

As they turned to leave, Hal cast one final glance back at his brother's coffin.

Outside, the autumn sun had broken through the clouds, casting long shadows across the church square. The crowds remained, silent and respectful, as the royal family emerged.

Hal squared his shoulders and took his place beside his father for the return journey to the palace. The drums began again, a steady, solemn beat.

One step at a time. One day at a time.

The crown prince was dead. Long live the crown prince.

Hal felt something shift within him—grief transforming into resolve. Freddie was gone, and nothing could change that. But Hal remained, and what he did with the life and position he'd inherited was his choice.

I may not be the prince they expected, he thought, glancing at the crowds lining the route. But I will find a way to be the prince they need.

The thought brought no comfort, but it did bring clarity. And for now, that would have to be enough.

November 31, 1939

Hal didn't wait for the palace servants to pack his belongings. He wasn't going far, or for long. One overnight stay, one last night to say goodbye to his life at Riddarhuset. He was perfectly capable of packing for that: clean underwear, pajamas that he had no intention of wearing, his shaving kit with it's vial of oil, a toothbrush.

Hal picked up the knight from the Chess set that sat on it's table near the fire, running his thumb over the smooth wooden curves. The memory of Freddie's voice was so clear it made his chest ache.

"Sentimental as always." His mother's voice cut through the silence.

Queen Margreta stood in the doorway, immaculate in mourning black that somehow managed to look regal rather than somber. No red eyes or tear tracks for her—grief was for the weak.

"I didn't hear you knock," Hal said, carefully setting down the chess piece.

She entered as if she owned the room. "I see you're determined to return to Riddarhuset."

"It's not foolishness to honor commitments, Mother." Hal continued packing, refusing to give her the satisfaction of his full attention.

Queen Margreta moved to touch Freddie's belongings with possessive fingers. "Honor. Such a quaint concept. Will you bring back jousting and longboats next? Your brother was much more forward thinking, but I suppose that's what comes of not spending his childhood buried in a book."

"Don't." Hal looked up, something hardening in his eyes. "Stop trying to use Freddie to manipulate me."

"Manipulate?" Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Harald. I'm trying to protect you. From yourself, primarily." She picked up a book from his desk—Byron, he noticed—examining it with distaste. "Did your young friend Eliasberg tell you about our conversation?"

"Of course he did." Hal's fingers tightened around the shirt he was folding. "He told me everything."

His mother laughed softly, the sound like ice cracking. "Oh, I doubt that. Men like him never tell the whole truth. It's not in their nature."

"Men like him?"

"Opportunists." She set down the book with deliberate care. "Did he tell you how eagerly he agreed to go to Moscow? How quickly he calculated the advantages?"

Despite himself, Hal felt a flicker of uncertainty. "He wouldn't⁠—"