Chapter 2 #4
The stairwell was narrower than Harald remembered, forcing them to walk close together.
Each step took them further from the warm sanctuary below, back toward the cold, controlled atmosphere of the Academy.
Harald couldn't think of anywhere he'd less like to be, although it felt less frightening with Jakob by his side.
"Your mother..." Harald adjusted his grip on the jackets. "She's not what I expected."
"No?" Jakob's voice echoed slightly in the confined space. "What did you expect from the woman who keeps this entire academy in clean linens and properly pressed uniforms?"
"I didn't..." Harald stumbled, both over the words and a slightly uneven step. Jakob's hand shot out, steadying him without dropping a single jacket. "I mean, she's very..."
"Competent? Efficient? Slightly terrifying?" That almost-smile again, visible even in the dim light. "That's my mama. She's had colonels and counts' sons through her laundry. Even a few princes, though you're the first who's bothered to stay for tea."
They reached the top of the stairs. Harald could hear boots on stone, commands carrying through the halls. The real world, waiting to reclaim him.
"I should..." He gestured vaguely with his armful of jackets.
"Can't keep Christian waiting." Jakob's tone was neutral, but there was something soft in his eyes. "Though if you need help with those collar stays again..."
"I..." Harald's voice caught. "Thank you."
"Any time, Your Highness." Jakob's bow was perfectly correct, but his eyes held a challenge. Before Harald could respond—though what he would have said, he had no idea—Jakob had disappeared back down the stairs, taking that almost-smile with him.
Harald stood for a moment, arms full of his own pressed uniforms, feeling the warmth of the laundry fade with each passing second. Then he squared his shoulders, adjusted his collar, and stepped back into the rigid world of formations and regulations.
Evening formation was already gathering when Harald arrived in the courtyard after spending the afternoon catching up on the already prodigious amount of reading for his various courses.
He'd looked for Jakob at lunch, and then again in the afternoon, but hadn't seen him.
Lines of cadets stood at attention, the late summer sun glinting off brass buttons and polished boots.
The air crackled with nervous energy—new cadets trying to remember their places, senior cadets watching for any mistake.
Christian stood at the front, clipboard in hand, every inch of his uniform regulation-correct. His eyes found Harald immediately.
"Cutting it rather close, cousin." His voice carried just far enough to make nearby cadets shift uncomfortably. "Though I see you've managed to correct your uniform deficiencies."
Harald took his place in line, keeping his expression neutral. The patches sat perfectly on his jacket—he'd checked three times before leaving his room. His collar stays were straight, his buttons gleamed, and even Christian wouldn't be able to find fault with Sarah's stitching.
"Company!" Christian's voice rang across the courtyard. "Attention!"
Harald's body responded automatically to the command, spine straightening, chin lifting. Around him, a hundred other cadets did the same, boots clicking together in unison. The sound echoed off the academy's stone walls.
"Dress right, dress!"
Another synchronized movement. Harald turned his head sharply to the right, checking his alignment with the cadet next to him.
Through the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of dark curls in the line ahead—Jakob, standing perfectly at attention, somehow managing to make even that look like a subtle challenge to authority.
"Ready, front!"
Harald snapped his head forward again. Christian began walking the lines, clipboard ready, measuring each cadet against the academy's exacting standards. His footsteps were deliberate, unhurried. Making them wait.
The sun crept lower, painting the courtyard in long shadows. No one moved. No one spoke. Even breathing seemed to require permission.
Christian paused behind Harald, close enough that Harald could feel his presence. Checking his jacket, his posture, looking for any excuse to find fault.
A long moment passed. Then another.
Christian moved on.
Harald kept his eyes forward, expression carefully blank. But inside, something warm unfurled—a small victory, wrapped in the memory of careful hands and an almost-smile.
The academy's bell tower began to toll, marking the hour. On the sixth chime, Christian's voice rang out again.
"Company, dismissed!"
The courtyard erupted into controlled movement—cadets breaking formation with ordered steps, heading toward the dining hall in ordered groups. No running, no unnecessary conversation. Everything measured, everything watched.
Harald fell into step with his assigned section. Ahead, he caught another glimpse of Jakob, now deep in conversation with a fellow second year cadet. As if feeling Harald's gaze, Jakob glanced back.
Their eyes met for just a moment. Then Jakob turned away, but not before Harald saw it—that same knowing look from the laundry, carrying the promise of more lessons in proper pressure and careful handling.
Harald adjusted his newly-pressed collar and followed his section inside.