Prologue
The mirrors on the walls of the Blue Anteroom reflected him from every angle, making Crown Prince Harald Edvard feel like a specimen under glass.
The formal suit he wore felt stiff and foreign after months in his Riddarhuset Academy clothes, covered in too many perfectly-pinned medals that hadn't been earned.
Early morning light filtered through centuries-old windows, turning the room's pale silk wallpaper to pearl and making him squint against its accusatory brightness.
Nothing had changed about the room since his late brother Freddie had dressed here for his last formal appearance—the same austere furniture, the same portrait of their great-grandfather glowering down at them with his handlebar mustache, even the same valet hovering anxiously with a clothes brush.
His brother would have worn this uniform perfectly, where as Hal still felt quite acutely like he was playing dress-up in their father's clothes.
Hal had already carefully pinned on the replacement badge of the Order of the Seraphim, given to him after the court had pressed Riddarhuset to make a comprehensive inventory of the grounds to find the one he had 'lost'.
He was wiling to endure Sigrid's teasing and the disappointed looks from his parents and the palace chamberlain, secure in the knowledge that the original was with Jakob in Finland, pinned inside his coat and resting over his heart.
Hal's fingers brushed the speech in his pocket, the paper crackling softly.
Somewhere in the castle, a clock struck nine.
In less than an hour, he would officially become Crown Prince of Sweden.
The title should have belonged to Freddie—would have still belonged to Freddie, if not for one mistake out on the water.
Now it fell to the spare, the quiet second son who'd rather be...
Hal's mind flickered unwillingly back to the heat of Jakob's body against his on their last morning together, the way they had lain intertwined on Jakob's pitifully small box bed, drifting between sleep and the waking world.
How Jakob had stirred with a soft, sleepy sound and nuzzled into Hal's warmth in the night, the content sigh that escaped him sending waves of affection through Hal's chest. The world outside had faded away, leaving them in a fragile soap-bubble like moment where nothing existed but the two of them, safe and warm.
But that thought, that memory, slipped away just as quickly as it had surfaced, suppressed beneath the weight of expectation and duty now looming before him.
"Your hands, Harald." Mother's voice cut through his thoughts like ice. She stood behind him in the mirror, her own reflection perfect as always. "A crown prince does not wear his uncertainty where others can see it."
Hal forced his fingers to stillness, though the memory of Jakob's touch still burned against his skin. He caught the briefest flicker in her eyes - that calculating look she'd worn ever since his return from Riddarhuset. Since he'd outmaneuvered her attempt to take Jakob from him?
The irony wasn't lost on him. He'd won that battle—keeping Jakob beyond her reach by sending him to Finland—but the war between himself and the Queen had only intensified.
Hal knew that his mother was patient in her vengeance.
Every interaction since had become a chess match, her eyes constantly assessing, waiting for him to make a slip, even the tiniest mistake she could exploit and he was uncomfortably conscious that he could still lose this war.
The thought that Jakob was safer in the line of fire in Finland than he would be in the glittering halls of Stockholm's palace struck him as absurd, yet undeniably true.
At least in Finland, Jakob faced only bullets and bombs—not his mother's sharpened knives and subtle poison.
The Queen stepped closer, her presence both familiar and suffocating.
She adjusted his sash ungently, each tug a reminder of the battles yet to come.
"I suppose it will have to do. We have no time to correct imperfections.
" The word hung between them, weighted with unspoken accusations.
"You understand what's at stake today." It wasn't a question.
"Sweden needs strength now more than ever, and all eyes are on you to provide it. "
Hal's gaze strayed to his father. King Gustav stood by the window, his breathing slightly labored. He paused to glance at the crowd gathering in the courtyard below, one hand pressed briefly against his chest. Hal noticed how his father's shoulders seemed to sag when he thought no one was looking.
"Remember to enunciate clearly," the Queen continued, her fingers cold as they brushed against his neck.
"The people expect clear words from their future king, not the mumbling of a schoolboy.
Karl Fredrick never had that problem." Her voice caught slightly on his brother's name, but she recovered quickly.
Hal swallowed hard. He couldn't let himself dwell on his brother right now, lest grief overcome him. He'd practiced this speech over and over, rehearsing it in the mirror in his quarters until each word flowed naturally. Now his tongue seemed to lock up and all the words evaporated from his mind.
"And for heaven's sake, stand up straight." She prodded his spine with sharp fingers. "You slouch like a common laborer. I should think that a military school would at the very least re-enforce good posture."
"I believe I stand correctly, Mother." Hal kept his voice level, though heat crept up his neck.
"Your hair is too long," she continued as if he hadn't spoken, reaching up to smooth an errant strand that had fallen across his forehead.
"You look like one of those Bohemian artists.
Karl Fredrick always kept his hair properly trimmed.
" Her hand lingered for a moment, and Hal wondered if she was remembering how she used to fuss over Freddie's appearance.
Gustav cleared his throat, the sound wetter than it should have been. "Margreta, enough. The boy looks fine."
"Fine is insufficient for a crown prince," she replied, but stepped back with a thin-lipped smile.
Hal met his father's eyes in the mirror, finding not the expected disappointment but something that might have been sympathy.
The King nodded almost imperceptibly, though the movement seemed to cost him effort.
The memory of Freddie hung in the air like the scent of fire, acrid and inescapable.
Hal could still see his brother in this room - Freddie laughing as he adjusted his own sash, Freddie's easy confidence as he prepared for public appearances, Freddie's golden hair catching the morning light.
Mother had never needed to correct Freddie's posture or enunciation.
Freddie had been born for his role and had fulfilled it as easily as breathing.
Somewhere in the castle, a clock struck the quarter hour. Hal straightened his shoulders, forcing himself to meet his own reflection. He might not be Freddie, but he was still a prince of Sweden. And today, he would have to prove it.
"Three minutes, Your Highness," announced the chamberlain from the doorway.
Hal took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the speech in his pocket.
His majority—his official recognition as an adult and heir— might have felt like freedom, if he'd been raised to expect it.
It was supposed to be the moment where the heir presumptive began taking on duties in what was expected to be a years-long apprenticeship before taking the throne. For Hal, it was none of those things.
The chamberlain slipped back into the antechamber. "Their Majesties will proceed in now, Your Royal Highness. You will wait and enter upon my signal."
Hal nodded, his throat suddenly dry. Through the partially open doors, he watched his parents glide into the Hall of State.
His father moved with a slow, deliberate grace, each step carefully placed, his back ramrod straight, a stark contrast to the shallow, almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest. Hal knew the effort it cost him, the constant battle for air that felt like lead in his father's lungs.
His mother moved with cold precision, chin lifted, acknowledging the assembled dignitaries with the slightest incline of her head.
The royal fanfare echoed through the hall, bouncing off marble columns and crystal chandeliers. The audience rose as one, a sea of uniforms and formal attire rippling with movement.
His parents reached the dais, turning carefully in tandem before taking their seats in the ornate chairs positioned before the throne.
The throne itself—empty today, but the light off of it's silver frame and baroque flourishes radiating the weight of tradition that was completely out of keeping with it's slight form —loomed behind them, a silent reminder of what awaited Hal someday.
"Now please, Your Royal Highness," the chamberlain murmured, stepping aside with a bow and gesturing for Hal to enter.
Hal drew a steadying breath and walked through the doors.
The hall fell silent. Hundreds of eyes tracked his progress down the center aisle, past rows of Sweden's elite—politicians, military leaders, nobility, and foreign dignitaries.
Somewhere among them sat Sigrid, though he didn't dare try to look for her, or to turn his head in any way.
Face forward, one step at a time, he thought.
It was the only way that he was going to get through this.
The walk felt endless. Hal focused on his breathing, on maintaining his military posture and even pace. Left foot, right foot. Measured steps. He felt the weight of the speech in his pocket, the words he'd crafted so carefully now jumbled in his mind.
He reached the bottom of the dais steps and bowed first to his father, then his mother. His father's eyes held a quiet encouragement. The queen's remained impassive, assessing.