Page 9 of The Broken Dawn

"Sarah Eliasberg." She gave him a quick, assessing look. "And you'll be needing company patches, I expect. That tailor at the palace never does remember about those."

"I..." Harald cleared his throat. "Yes. For all my jackets."

"Of course, of course. Yasha!" She took the pile of jackets from his arms, and called over her shoulder without looking. "Fetch His Highness a chair. And some tea from the samovar."

The figure at the pressing machine straightened at Sarah's call, and something in Harald's chest shifted—a subtle realignment, as if the world had been tilted ever so slightly on its axis and now was coming back to true. Harald couldn't quite explain why his next breath came slower, deeper.

The young man's shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows as he worked, his movements holding a quiet confidence. Dark curls clung damply to his temples, slightly frizzing in the steam, and Harald found himself staring at the way sweat beaded at the edges of his eyes. His hands—Harald found himself oddly fascinated by those hands, the sure way they handled the pressing machine's controls, the careful competence in every gesture.

When the young man turned fully toward them, Harald felt his breath catch. Strong, dark brows arced over his eyes like the wings of a bird, framing the most brilliant blue Harald had ever seen—clear and sharp, fringed with thick lashes that seemed almost unfair on someone who already commanded attention so effortlessly. His nose tilted up slightly at the end, as if inviting mischief, and his lips were almost too full for the pointed line of his chin.

"Your Highness." His bow was messy, somehow genuine rather than ceremonial. "Jakob Eliasberg." His voice carried warmth and a hint of accent that made Harald want to lean closer, though he couldn't have said why. "Except Mama, who is old fashioned, still calls me Yasha."

Harald knew he should respond with something appropriate. Instead, he found himself struggling to remember any of the thousand formal phrases he'd been taught, struck by the strange certainty that something important was happening, even if he didn't quite understand what.

"Come on." He said, and his eyes held that same almost-smile Harald had glimpsed upstairs. "I believe we can do better than a chair." He disappeared behind a rack of uniforms and returned with what looked like an actual armchair, worn but clean.

"That's from the faculty lounge," Harald said before he could stop himself.

"Is it?" Jakob's expression was a study in innocence. "How interesting. Tea?"

Sarah was already examining one of Harald's jackets, her movements quick. "You'll need six patches, I assume? One for each jacket?"

"I..." Harald glanced at the door, remembering Christian's threat. "Yes, but there isn't much time⁠—"

"There's always time for things to be done properly." She threaded a needle without looking, her tone brooking no argument. "Sit. Drink your tea. These things cannot be rushed."

A cup appeared at Harald's elbow, steam rising in the already humid air. He took it automatically, then nearly dropped it when his fingers brushed Jakob's.

"Careful, Your Highness." Jakob's voice was low, meant only for him. "Wouldn't want to add tea stains to those dress code violations."

He should have been offended. Should have remembered his rank, remembered Christian waiting upstairs. Instead, he found himself fighting a smile.

"You seem very familiar with the regulations," he said, watching Jakob return to the pressing machine.

"Someone has to be." Jakob fed an officer's uniform through the press with practiced ease. "Especially since some senior cadets can't even keep their own collars pressed correctly."

Sarah made a sound that might have been a laugh. "Yasha."

"Just making conversation, Mama." But there was something hard under Jakob's casual tone, something that suggested he'd noticed exactly how Christian wielded his authority.

Harald sipped his tea, letting the warmth settle in his chest. The laundry was nothing like the rigid world above—the steam softened everything, made the military precision seem far away. Even the sounds were different: the hiss of the pressing machines, the quiet murmur of workers sorting linens, the occasional phrase of soft Russian between mother and son.

"There." Sarah held up the jacket, examining her work. "First one's done. Though..." She paused, head tilted. "Your Highness, if you're planning to survive until evening formation, you might want to adjust your collar stays. The left one's crooked."

Harald reached up automatically, but his fingers fumbled with the stiff fabric.

"Here." Jakob was suddenly in front of him, hands steady and sure. "Like this." His fingers brushed Harald's neck as he adjusted the collar, and Harald forgot how to breathe. "Can't have you getting cited for violations on your first day."

Their eyes met, and for a moment the rest of the laundry seemed to fade away. Then Sarah cleared her throat.

"Second jacket, and I've tacked down your rank patch as well." she announced, as if she hadn't noticed anything. "Though I don't know why they can't just use stronger thread in the first place. These patches, they're always coming loose..."

Harald watched Jakob work the pressing machine, the sure movements of his hands, the way he seemed to know exactly how much pressure to apply. "Do you... work here often?"

"Not usually." Jakob didn't look up from his task. "But it's a busy day, and I already have my uniform and time table. Mama needed the help, and since the only reason I can attend the academy is because of her, I figure I owe it to her to pitch in."

"What do you mean⁠—"