Chapter 3
The scrape of wooden chairs against stone echoed through the high-ceilinged classroom as cadets found their seats. Nearly a week into his time at Riddarhuset, Harald's uniform collar still chafed at his neck, though his shoulders had begun adjusting to the weight of his jacket.
Christian's shoulder brushed against his as his cousin claimed the adjacent seat, blocking Harald's view of the rest of the room. A flash of movement caught Harald's eye - Jakob sliding into a seat behind him and to one side, his dark curls slightly disheveled.
The classroom clock ticked away the seconds until class began, each metallic click matching the rhythm of Harald's pulse.
He traced his finger along the grain of the ancient desk, wondering how many future officers had sat here before him, dreading their own lessons.
The wood felt smooth beneath his touch, worn down by generations of restless hands.
"Attention!" The command cracked through the air. Harald's body responded before his mind registered Major Bergstrom's entrance, muscle memory from endless drills snapping him upright. The sudden movement sent his pen rolling toward the desk's edge.
Christian's hand shot out, catching the pen before it could clatter to the floor.
He placed it back on Harald's desk with deliberate precision, his fingers lingering a moment too long.
"Careful, cousin," Christian murmured, his voice carrying a note of amused condescension. "We wouldn't want to make a scene."
The snap of boots on polished floors echoed through the Philosophy of Military Leadership classroom as cadets filed in, brass buttons catching the morning light. Major Bergstrom's presence at the lectern sent everyone to attention, a synchronized movement of pressed uniforms and straight spines.
"At ease, gentlemen. Be seated." The Major waited only a moment for the class to settle before beginning.
"Today's discussion: Just War Theory through Plato's Republic.
The Guardian Class and their role in military leadership.
" Major Bergstrom's chalk scratched across the board.
"Who can tell me why Plato believed military leaders must be philosophers? "
Harald found himself tuning out the professor's voice, wanting to turn his head and look at Jakob, so close and yet positioned just out of his sight.
"Your Highness." This time Major Bergstrom's voice held an edge of genuine warning. "Perhaps you'd care to demonstrate proper posture in the classroom?"
Someone near him —probably Christian—snickered. Behind him, Harald heard Jakob shift in his chair, a subtle sound of wool against wood that shouldn't have been so distracting.
"Now then." Bergstrom adjusted his spectacles, surveying the room. "We were discussing the two principles of Just War Theory. Who can explain why we separate the concepts of jus ad bellum from jus in bello?"
Christian's hand shot up. "Sir. The separation exists because different actors bear different moral responsibilities.
Leaders who declare war are accountable for jus ad bellum— whether the decision to go to war itself is just. Common soldiers can't decide whether to go to war or not, so they are only responsible for following proper conduct within battle, jus in bello. "
"Very good, Cadet Lieutenant Vasa." Bergstrom nodded. "That is the traditional view which has shaped military doctrine for centuries. Cadet Eliasberg, you seem to disagree with it?"
A murmur rippled through the class. Harald watched as Jakob straightened in his chair, those ink-stained fingers trailing along the edge of his book. There was something almost musical about the way he moved, as if every gesture was part of some larger rhythm Harald couldn't quite grasp.
"With respect, sir," Jakob began, his voice carrying that hint of accent that made everything he said sound slightly dangerous, "I believe that separating the two ideas absolves soldiers of their innate moral duty.
Every man who picks up a rifle becomes responsible for the justice of the cause he serves in addition to his own acts to pursue that cause. "
"Take the Russian Revolution, sir. Every soldier who followed orders to fire on civilians shared responsibility for those deaths. The excuse that they were following orders cannot absolve them from the responsibility of pulling the trigger—"
"What an interesting interpretation." Christian's voice dripped condescension. "Though perhaps someone from your background would naturally sympathize with disorder and rebellion. The rest of us understand the importance of strong leadership in maintaining civilization."
Several cadets shifted uncomfortably. Major Bergstrom cleared his throat, but Jakob spoke first.
"My background?" His fingers traced the margins of his notebook, where Harald could see diagrams of battle formations.
"You mean my actual experience watching how theories of 'strong leadership' - either yours or those of Plato - play out during a conflict?
I suppose that is a significant difference in background from my fellow cadets. "
"Mr. Eliasberg," Major Bergstrom warned, but Jakob continued, his voice perfectly, devastatingly polite.
"I'd refer you and Cadet Lieutenant Vasa to page 394 in our text, sir.
Plato says 'The true ruler must be a philosopher, for how else can he judge the justice of his actions?
' I would argue that moral responsibility extends to every man who takes up arms. Or do you disagree that soldiers should think about the morality of their orders? "
Harald found himself holding his breath.
Jakob was right—he knew it, had read that exact passage last summer.
But if every soldier was responsible for judging the justice of war, then what did that mean for the chain of command?
For Harald himself, or his father and brother, wielding the ultimate power to take the entire nation to war?
Christian's face had darkened to an ugly red.
"Some of us understand that order requires hierarchy.
Those above have more information and greater understanding than those below them and therefore bear greater responsibility.
Though I suppose that's a difficult concept for certain elements of society to grasp.
Particularly those who might have divided loyalties. "
"That's enough." Major Bergstrom's voice cracked through the tension.
"This is an academic discussion, gentlemen.
While I commend you for taking strong positions, you will articulate and defend them with the honor that befits this institution.
Cadet Eliasberg, while your point about individual moral responsibility is noted, perhaps we should return to the traditional interpretation—"
"Excuse me, Major Bergstrom," Harald heard him say, stumbling over the proper address in his urgency to speak.
The bell rang, cutting him off before he could even formulate a sentence.
"Cadet Eliasberg, Cadet Lieutenant Vasa, please remain. Next week," Major Bergstrom called over the sudden shuffle of books and chairs, "we'll be conducting practical leadership exercises. Please review chapters six through eight on command structure and moral authority."
Harald gathered his things slowly, watching Jakob from the corner of his eye.
The other boy moved with that same economy, but there was tension in his shoulders now, a tightness around his mouth that hadn't been there before.
His hands were steady as he collected his books, but Harald could see the ink stains had spread where his fingers had gripped the pages too hard.
As he turned toward the door, Harald looked back. Jakob was watching him, those blue eyes unreadable. No—not unreadable. Disappointed. As if he'd hoped, just for a moment, that Harald might be different.
What would you have said? that look seemed to ask. If the bell hadn't saved you?
Hal didn't know. And that terrified him more than anything else about Riddarhuset so far.
Mathematics was a blur. So was Physical Training.
By lunchtime, Harald had taken exactly three pages of notes, all of them complete nonsense.
He couldn't stop thinking about Jakob's perfectly level, controlled voice standing up to Christian's argument, and his long fingers playing with his pen and the edge of his textbooks as he'd looked at Harald, waiting.
"—completely undermining discipline," Christian was saying as they entered the dining hall.
"For someone like Eliasberg, here on the administration's sufferance, and then questioning the chain of command?
In times like these? I shared my concerns with Bergstrom about whether he truly belongs at Riddarhuset, and he promised to take them to the Commandant. "
Harald made a noncommittal noise, scanning the crowded room. He told himself he wasn't looking for anyone in particular.
"Your Highness!" A cadet in his year whose name Harald had already forgotten waved from a table near the windows. "We saved you a seat!"
Of course they had. The table was perfectly positioned— the closest first year table to the upper-classmen, visible enough to be prestigious, far enough to maintain proper distance. Everything at Riddarhuset was about proper distance.
Harald ate mostly in silence, making proper murmurs and one-word responses, letting the conversation at the table swirl around him without really following it, until the meal had finished and he was mercifully freed from having to make small talk as his stomach churned.
As he cleared the doorway between the dining hall and the corridor, a voice rung out calling his name.
"Your Highness."
Harald turned at Commandant Lindquist's voice, grateful for the interruption. The older man stood in the doorway, posture and dress uniform correct.
"Might I have a word?"
Christian came up behind Harald, his hand tight on Harald's shoulder. "Good afternoon, Sir, we were just—"