Chapter 4 #4
Jakob's eyes gleamed. "Not yet. Let friction do its work first."
Christian had managed to hobble to slightly firmer ground, his face a mask of fury as he watched his assault crumble. Without his boot, he couldn't effectively lead the charge. With their leader compromised, his team's confidence was visibly wavering.
"Now?" Harald asked, seeing Christian's team bunch together on one of the few solid patches.
"Now," Jakob agreed.
Harald raised his hand, giving the signal. From three different positions, their squad opened fire with training rounds. The trapped assault team had nowhere to go except deeper into the mud.
"Fall back!" Christian shouted, his voice cracking. "Tactical retreat—" He tried to step backward and his sock-clad foot slipped. The perfect Lieutenant Christian Vasa went down hard, landing squarely in the mud.
Harald almost felt sorry for his cousin. Almost.
"Time," called the instructor from the ridge. "Exercise complete. Defensive position successfully held."
As they emerged from their hiding spots, Harald caught Christian's eye. His cousin's face was a study in barely contained rage as he glared first at Harald, then at Jakob, then down at his mud-covered uniform and single boot.
"Well done," Jakob said quietly, just loud enough to carry. "The friction of war can be quite challenging, can't it, sir?"
Christian's jaw clenched so hard Harald could see the muscle jump. Without a word, he turned and squelched his way back up the ridge, leaving his ruined boot behind like some sort of muddy monument to their victory.
Magnus appeared beside them, tactical manual clutched to his chest. "That was..." He paused, looking from the boot to his own mud-splattered uniform. "I don't think there's anything about this in our textbook."
"No," Harald said, watching Christian's retreating back. "But perhaps there should be."
"Your Highness, you've got..." Otto gestured vaguely at his own head, trying not to laugh. "There's mud..."
Hal ran his fingers through his hair, somehow managing to make it worse. The motion left streaks of drying mud across his forehead, his golden hair now a disaster of tangles and dirt. He was grinning like a maniac, any trace of princely dignity lost hours ago in their tactical victory.
"Did you see Christian's face?" Erik wheezed, doubling over. "When he tried to demonstrate proper movement and just..." He mimed someone slowly sinking into quicksand, sending the whole group into fresh peals of laughter.
Jakob's sides ached from laughing, his uniform as mud-caked as everyone else's.
The late afternoon sun caught Harald's eyes as he threw his head back, crying with mirth, and Jakob's breath caught at how alive he looked.
How real. Nothing like the proper prince who'd arrived at Riddarhuset just weeks ago.
The church bells began to toll.
Jakob's smile faded. "I have to go," he said, already backing away. "Chores."
"Already?" Harald's laughter softened to something warmer, his eyes meeting Jakob's with understanding that somehow made it both better and worse.
"Cows wait for no man, Your Highness. Not even those who have just won tactical victories."
"Not even when said tactical victory involved your brilliant idea about the friction of war?" Harald's grin turned wicked, and Jakob felt his face heat.
"Especially not then." Jakob shouldered his satchel, trying not to notice how Harald's uniform clung to his shoulders, dark with mud and water. "I'll see you tomorrow."
He turned quickly, breaking into a run as soon as he hit the tree line. But not quite quickly enough to miss Harald's failed attempt to get the mud out of his hair, or the way his laugh echoed across the practice field.
Jakob's feet pounded against the packed earth of the forest path.
Fallen pine needles cushioned his steps as he vaulted over a fallen log.
His satchel thumped against his hip, textbooks shifting with each stride.
He burst through the tree line, chest heaving.
The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the pasture.
Jakob pushed open the creaking gate and stepped inside, greeted by the soft sounds of cows lowing in anticipation.
The herd clustered at the gate, their familiar forms silhouetted against the setting sun.
The Holsteins lifted their heads as he approached, a chorus of low moos greeting him.
"I know, I know," Jakob muttered, fumbling with the latch.
"I'm sorry, Ladies." The cows filed in, their udders swollen and heavy, sheep darting between their legs.
He counted them as they passed—three, four, five.
All present. He let them in with quick motions, securing the gate behind him before heading toward the milking barn.
He moved swiftly but carefully; time was not on his side.
Once inside, he grabbed a wooden stool and sat beside Anskie, their oldest cow.
Her warm breath misted in the cool air as she shifted contentedly.
Jakob worked methodically, hands moving with practiced ease as he began to milk her.
The steady sound of milk splashing into the pail filled his ears, but his thoughts wandered back to Prince Harald.
"Dammit," Jakob hissed, feeling his face heat as Anskie moved and the bucket tipped.
He caught it, but barely, cursing his distraction.
He'd been milking cows since he was six years old.
He didn't spill milk. He didn't get distracted.
He was practical and responsible and absolutely did not spend his time thinking about the way other boys looked when they were covered head to toe in mud, golden hair a disaster, uniform completely beyond saving—
And yet.
Here he was, remembering how Harald's whole face had lit up when their plan worked.
That wild, brilliant grin that had nothing to do with being a prince and everything to do with being twenty and clever and absolutely delighted with outmaneuvering his cousin.
The way he'd looked at Jakob, eyes bright with shared triumph, like they'd conquered the world together instead of just winning a training exercise.
Jakob had never seen a man look so alive. So real.