Chapter 3 #2
"Alone, if you please, Cadet Lieutenant Vasa." Lindquist's tone was pleasant, but his eyes weren't. "A matter concerning His Highness's schedule."
They walked together to the Commandant's office, where dark wood paneling and portraits of decorated officers watched their conversation like silent judges.
The leather chairs creaked as Harald sat, the scent of polish and old books filling his nostrils.
He kept his spine straight, his face composed, even as his mind raced. "Yes, sir."
"Your Highness." Commandant Lindquist clasped his hands behind his back, the picture of military authority. His medals caught the afternoon light filtering through the leaded windows. "I trust you're finding your first day pleasant?"
"I am, sir," Harald said evenly, though his collar suddenly felt too tight.
Lindquist paced behind his desk, boots clicking against the hardwood floor.
"Your cousin, Cadet Lieutenant Vasa, has raised some concerns on your behalf.
" His voice softened, taking on an almost paternal tone that made Harald's skin crawl.
"About the behavior of a certain fellow cadet in your classes. "
"I don't understand, sir," Harald said, though a cold weight settled in his stomach.
"Come now, Your Highness. Don't be naive.
" Lindquist's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Christian was quite concerned about the...
disrespect shown to you in Philosophy of Military Leadership.
Here at Riddarhuset, we have a duty to maintain order, to show that proper hierarchy still means something. Especially in these uncertain times."
Something twisted in his chest at the thought of Jakob gone. Of those blue eyes and ink-stained fingers and brilliant mind just... disappeared. Of never again seeing that almost-smile when Jakob made a particularly cutting point. Of empty seats in Philosophy of Military Leadership and—
Oh.
Oh.
Harald's breath caught as several things suddenly became terrifyingly clear. The way his eyes kept finding Jakob in every room. The way his heart had raced when Jakob had challenged Christian. The way he'd been unable to focus on anything else all day.
"Your Highness?" Lindquist prompted, watching him too closely.
Harald straightened, forcing his face into the neutral mask he'd perfected at court. "I'm merely surprised that such a minor academic disagreement would warrant administrative attention."
Lindquist's brows rose. "No one is suggesting expulsion. Merely... reassessing Cadet Eliasberg's suitability for advanced courses. His academic scores are impressive, but Riddarhuset requires more than mere intelligence. We require understanding of one's proper place."
The unfairness of it burned in Harald's throat. "He's the brightest student in the class."
"That's hardly the point, is it?" Lindquist sighed, settling into his leather chair.
"Your Highness, you're young. I understand that you want things to be fair.
But you have responsibilities that go beyond personal feelings.
Your very presence here sets an example.
And allowing a student to attend on charity—especially one of his background—only to have them publicly challenge royal authority undermines the traditions that this institution stands for. "
"His background?" Harald felt heat rising to his face. "You mean his academic excellence?"
Lindquist's expression hardened. "I mean his questionable loyalties. He's the son of a professor of political philosophy from Moscow. His father's political writings were quite... provocative. And with the current situation in Europe—"
"Commandant?"
They both turned. Jakob stood in the doorway, a stack of papers in his arms. His uniform was, as always, impeccable despite its wear, and his face was carefully blank, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the forms. How much had he heard?
"Cadet Eliasberg." Lindquist's tone cooled several degrees. "We're in a private meeting."
"Excuse me, sir. The secretary asked me to deliver these forms." Jakob's accent was more pronounced than it had been in class, a sure sign of his discomfort. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
He started to turn away, and Harald felt something crack inside his chest. The thought of Jakob leaving—not just this office, but Riddarhuset entirely—made it hard to breathe.
"Wait!" Harald took a step forward before remembering himself. "I wanted to say—about class—"
"Your Highness," Lindquist cut in smoothly, "we needn't trouble Cadet Eliasberg with this matter now. I'm sure you understand the delicacy of maintaining proper distance from certain elements. As we were discussing regarding your royal responsibilities."
Jakob looked back, just for a moment. Something flickered in his eyes—hope, maybe, or resignation. Then his expression smoothed over, turning to ice as he glanced between Harald and the Commandant.
"No need, Your Highness." His bow was exactly as deep as protocol required. Not an inch more. "I understand perfectly."
The words were polite, but the chill in them made Harald flinch. Jakob thought he was agreeing with Lindquist—thought he was dismissing him as a "certain element" to keep distance from.
He walked away, spine straight, steps measured. Harald watched until he disappeared around the corner, suddenly aware that he'd broken military bearing again, turning to watch him go.
"Well," Lindquist said quietly, satisfaction evident in his tone. "I trust that settles the matter? Some boundaries are necessary, Your Highness, even if they seem harsh in the moment."
Harald turned back to the Commandant, to the portraits of stern officers watching from the walls, to the gleaming medals that spoke of battles long past. He thought of Jakob's words about moral responsibility, about every soldier's duty to judge the justice of his cause.
"Actually, sir," he heard himself say, "I don't believe it does.
" His heart hammered in his chest, but his voice remained steady.
"I find Cadet Eliasberg's contributions to class discussion invaluable.
His perspective challenges us all to think more deeply about our responsibilities as future officers. "
Lindquist's face darkened. "Your Highness—"
"Furthermore," Harald continued, finding strength in each word, "I believe removing him from advanced courses would be a disservice to Riddarhuset's reputation for academic excellence. Unless there's some regulation I'm unaware of that prohibits our charity students from excelling?"
The silence stretched between them, taut as a wire.
"Very well." Lindquist's voice was cold. "I'll make note of your... preference in this matter. Though I must say, your cousin will be disappointed."
"My cousin doesn't speak for me," Harald said quietly. "And neither does anyone else."
It was only when he left the office that Harald realized the damage was already done. Jakob had heard just enough to misunderstand completely. And somehow, Harald would have to find a way to fix it—without revealing why it mattered so much to him in the first place.
The library's high ceiling trapped the afternoon's heat, making the air thick and close.
Jakob had claimed the farthest corner table hours ago, barricading himself behind stacks of military theory texts and political treatises.
He'd been there since... well, since overhearing himself discussed like a problematic piece of furniture in the Commandant's office.
Prince Harald's quiet voice carried across the room, making Jakob's pen pause mid-sentence.
He didn't stand or look up as protocol demanded.
From his shadowed corner, he couldn't see the prince directly, just the way other cadets straightened at his approach, their faces brightening with that particular eagerness reserved for royal attention.
"Has anyone seen Cadet Eliasberg?" The prince's voice was controlled, formal, but with an undercurrent of something Jakob couldn't identify.
Jakob pressed his pen harder against the paper, watching ink bleed into the margins of his notes. The memory of the prince's conversation with Lindquist sat in his chest like a stone—heavy and cold and impossible to dislodge.
"...maintaining proper distance from certain elements."
He'd spent years building armor against such dismissals—the sideways glances at his surname on the class roster, the whispers about charity students, the pointed comments about his father's politics and his mother's accent.
He'd learned to counter prejudice with excellence, to answer every slight by being just a little bit better, just a little bit more disciplined than any other cadet.
But something about hearing it from the Prince had cut deeper.
For one foolish moment in that classroom, when the prince had seemed interested in his perspective on Plato, Jakob had allowed himself to hope. Perhaps this royal was different—someone who valued ideas over bloodlines, who might see Jakob as more than his background.
Naive. Dangerous. Exactly the kind of thinking that got people like him into trouble.
Jakob traced the diagram he'd been working on—calculating ideal artillery positioning in various terrain situations.
He'd always found comfort in the clean equations and logical progressions of artillery.
On paper, battles could be won through intelligence and planning, not privilege and connections.
"I heard he's hiding in the library again," someone answered the prince. "Back corner, probably. Where else would Eliasberg be?"
The comment carried a sneer. Jakob's fingers tightened around his pen.
What did Prince Harald Edvard want with him anyway? To explain that while he found Jakob intellectually stimulating, proper distance must be maintained? To clarify that while he'd defended Jakob's place in the class, he shouldn't mistake that for anything approaching friendship, or even respect?