Chapter 7
The tactics classroom hummed with unusual energy as Jakob slid into his seat.
Normally orderly rows of cadets had clustered into knots of hushed conversation, their faces animated in a way rarely seen at Riddarhuset.
At the front, Major Bergstrom arranged maps on his desk with methodical care, occasionally glancing up at the clock.
Where the hell was Harald?
Three days. Three days of empty seats in classes, of scanning the dining hall and finding only Christian's increasingly thunderous expression where the prince should have been.
Whatever had pulled Harald back to the palace clearly hadn't included his cousin, and Christian was making everyone suffer for it.
"Did you hear?" Otto Rydberg leaned across the aisle, eyes bright with excitement. "The Germans reached the outskirts of Warsaw in less than a week. A week, Eliasberg."
Jakob nodded tightly. He'd heard. The news had kept him awake half the night, stomach churning as he imagined the reality behind those clinical military reports.
Not just troop movements and strategic objectives—but homes destroyed, families fleeing, lives shattered.
Real people, not pieces on a game board.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Otto continued, oblivious to Jakob's discomfort. "The coordination between their air and ground forces—"
"Gentlemen." Major Bergstrom's voice cut through the chatter. "Take your seats."
The cadets scrambled to attention. Jakob found himself scanning the room automatically, the empty seat beside him a reminder of Harald's continued absence. Three days now. Three days of facing Christian's increasingly venomous looks alone.
As if summoned by the thought, Christian strode in, flanked by his usual entourage. His gaze swept the room, cold and assessing, before settling on Jakob with a slight curl of his lip.
"Today," Major Bergstrom began, "we will be examining the most significant tactical development of the modern era—what the Germans are calling Blitzkrieg.
" He unrolled a large map of Poland, red arrows slashing across its surface.
"Lightning war. The coordinated use of mechanized forces, armor, and air power to achieve rapid, decisive victory. "
The room leaned forward as one. Even Jakob couldn't help being drawn in by the professor's breakdown of the German advance—the Luftwaffe striking first to destroy Polish air forces on the ground, armored divisions punching through defensive lines while infantry followed to secure territory.
"The speed is unprecedented," Bergstrom continued. "And I should note that as of midnight last night, Britain, France, Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa have formally declared war on Germany."
A ripple of murmurs swept through the classroom. Jakob felt something cold settle in his chest. The Great War had started with similar declarations, and sixteen million people had died before it ended.
"Sir," Erik Stensson raised his hand, his usual arrogance tempered by genuine curiosity. "Does this mean Sweden will join the Allies?"
"That's a political question, Cadet Stensson, not a tactical one." Bergstrom's tone was clipped. "Sweden's official position remains neutral, as it was during the Great War. Our concern today is understanding this new form of warfare."
"It's brilliant, isn't it?" Christian's voice carried from the back of the room. "The Germans have revolutionized warfare. The Poles never stood a chance."
"There's nothing brilliant about bombing civilians, Vasa," Jakob said, the words out before he could stop them.
The room went silent. Christian's eyes narrowed.
"The discussion of civilian casualties is not within the scope of this class, Cadet Eliasberg," Bergstrom said carefully. "We're analyzing military tactics, not ethics."
"With respect, sir," Jakob straightened in his seat. "If we separate tactics from their human consequences, we're not studying warfare—we're just playing with toy soldiers."
Several cadets shifted uncomfortably. Christian's laugh cut through the tension.
"Always so sentimental, Eliasberg. This is why charity students shouldn't be in advanced courses. They lack the proper perspective."
"And what perspective is that?" Jakob turned to face him directly. "The one that only sees people as abstractions?"
"Enough." Bergstrom's voice cracked like a whip. "This is a tactics classroom, not a debating society. Cadet Lieutenant Vasa, Cadet Eliasberg—you will both remain after class."
The lecture continued, but Jakob barely heard it. His mind kept returning to the news reports he'd read that morning—Polish towns in flames, refugees streaming eastward. How many of them were Jewish, like his family had been in Russia? How long before they faced worse than displacement?
When class ended, Jakob remained seated as the other cadets filed out.
Erik paused at his desk, surprising Jakob with a slight nod that might almost have been respectful before following the others.
Christian approached Bergstrom's desk with easy confidence, as if being held after class was merely an inconvenience.
"Gentlemen," Bergstrom said once the room had emptied, "I understand tensions are high given recent events, but I expect professional conduct in my classroom."
"Of course, sir," Christian said smoothly. "Though I must say, Eliasberg's emotional outbursts are becoming disruptive."
"It wasn't an outburst," Jakob said quietly. "It was a legitimate question about the scope of tactical analysis."
Bergstrom studied them both. "Cadet Eliasberg, while I appreciate intellectual curiosity, there are appropriate channels for such discussions. Cadet Vasa, I would remind you that all cadets at this academy have earned their place, regardless of their background."
Christian's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Of course, sir. Some just have more to prove than others."
Bergstrom sighed. "You're both dismissed. And gentlemen—I suggest you find a way to work together. The world is changing rapidly, and Sweden's officer corps cannot afford internal divisions."
Outside in the corridor, Christian caught Jakob's arm, his grip just tight enough to hurt.
"You're only here because my cousin finds you amusing," he said, voice low. "But Harald isn't here now, is he? Called back to the palace for matters of actual importance."
Jakob pulled his arm free. "Is there a point to this conversation, Vasa?"
Christian's smile widened. "Just that you should be careful. When Sweden inevitably recognizes which way the wind is blowing in Europe, certain... elements... will need to be removed from positions of influence. Including this academy."
"Is that a threat?"
"Just a historical observation. The Germans understand something we've forgotten—that there are natural and immutable hierarchies that must be maintained.
" Christian straightened his already immaculate uniform.
"Your kind learned that lesson in Russia, didn't they?
Yet here you are, making the same mistakes. "
Before Jakob could respond, a familiar voice called from down the hall.
"Eliasberg! There you are."
Erik Stensson approached, his expression unreadable. "Lieutenant Colonel Holm is looking for you. Something about the library committee."
Christian's eyes narrowed slightly at the interruption, but he merely nodded to Erik. "We'll continue this discussion another time, Eliasberg." He turned and walked away, shoulders straight, every inch the aristocrat.
"There's no library committee," Jakob said once Christian was out of earshot.
Erik shrugged. "No, but he doesn't know that." He studied Jakob for a moment. "You know, what you said in there—about tactics and consequences—it wasn't entirely wrong."
Jakob blinked in surprise. Erik Stensson, of all people, agreeing with him?
"My father fought in the Great War," Erik continued, almost reluctantly. "He doesn't talk about it much, but when he does... well, it doesn't sound like the glorious adventure Christian makes it out to be."
Jakob nodded slowly. "Thank you. For the interruption."
"Don't mention it." Erik's expression closed again. "Seriously, don't. I have to live with those people." He hesitated. "Any word on when Prince Harald will return?"
"No." The admission stung more than it should have. "Nothing."
Erik nodded as if confirming something to himself. "Well, until he does—watch your back, Eliasberg. Christian's been different since the news from Poland. Like he's... excited."
The word hung between them, its implications chilling. Jakob thought of the empty seat beside him in class, of Harald somewhere in the palace, perhaps reading the same reports of villages burning and civilians fleeing.
"I always watch my back," Jakob said quietly. "But thanks for the warning."
As Erik walked away, Jakob stood alone in the corridor, the weight of absence heavy on his shoulders.
He'd built his place at Riddarhuset carefully, brick by brick—his grades, his tactical insights, his determination to be twice as good as any aristocrat.
But without Harald, those bricks felt suddenly fragile, as if the whole structure might collapse with a single push.
And Christian, it seemed, was more than ready to push.
The royal map room smelled of leather, pipe tobacco, and the faint metallic tang of ink.
Maps covered every surface—the massive oak desk, the side tables, even parts of the floor—their corners weighted down with brass paperweights shaped like Swedish lions.
Diplomatic cables and intelligence reports formed neat stacks, each marked with colored tabs in Gustav's elegant handwriting.
Harald stood at the large central table, tracing the German advance with his finger. Five days. It had taken them just five days to drive deep into Polish territory, their armored columns slicing through defenses like a hot knife through butter.