Chapter 1
Mikkeli, Finland
The anteroom to Field Marshall Carl Gustaf Emil Mannerheim's office felt cloying and over-warm after the long walk in the cold Finnish wind, but Jakob didn't dare remove his coat.
He'd pinned the silver and diamond medal of the Order of the Seraphim that Hal had used to seal his letter to Mannerheim to the interior pocket of Hal's coat.
It pressed against his chest with each breath, a constant reminder of everything he held in his heart, unvoiced, never acknowledged, but never far from his thoughts.
"Enter."
Jakob drew himself up, his body falling into place; spine straight, chin level. Everything controlled. Exactly to regulations. Exactly the way he'd been trained.
"Mr. Eliasberg as requested, sir." the aide de camp said, showing Jakob into the office.
Mannerheim didn't look up from his desk immediately; A power play Jakob recognized all too well. When he did, his gaze swept over Jakob with surgical precision.
"That's a Swedish military academy uniform."
"Yes, sir. I came directly from Riddarhuset."
"Did you." Not a question. Mannerheim's tone could have frozen the Gulf of Bothnia. "I understand that you have brought a letter addressed to me?"
"I have, Sir." he said.
Jakob's hand didn't shake as he withdrew the envelope.
But God, that letter was a bit of Hal that he was deeply reticent to give up.
Hal's handwriting, the faintest echo of his cologne on the paper, the way the 'J' in 'Jakob' had curled a little because of the shake of his hand as he wrote it.
Proof, if Jakob even needed it, that he hadn't dreamed this. He was loath to let it go.
Mannerheim took it from his hand his expression shifting as he noted the distinctive mark where the medal had pierced the paper. His eyebrows rose fractionally as he began to read.
The silence stretched. Jakob kept his eyes fixed on the portrait of Tsar Nicholas II behind Mannerheim's desk. Tried not to think about Hal's face when he'd written those words. Tried not to remember...
"His Royal Highness seems... quite invested in your potential service."
"Yes, sir."
"He is effusive in his praise." Mannerheim's tone suggested this was somewhere between a tactical error and an outright scandal.
"His Royal Highness is a generous man, sir."
Another long pause. Mannerheim stood, began to circle him. Jakob kept his eyes forward, expression neutral. He'd survived worse scrutiny than this.
"You speak Russian?"
"Yes, sir. And Swedish, English, and German."
"You have experience with winter warfare tactics?" Mannerheim asked.
"Yes, sir." Jakob replied automatically. "I was preparing my thesis on the Swedish-Russian Winter War of 1808, with particular focus on General Adlercreutz's defensive maneuvers at Siikajoki."
Mannerheim's expression remained impassive. "And have you ever actually fired a weapon in temperatures below freezing, Cadet Eliasberg?"
Jakob's military bearing didn't falter, though something inside him did. "Only in exercises, sir. Not in combat conditions. But I understand the theoretical adjustments required for ballistic trajectories in extreme cold."
"Your educational record seems impressive," Mannerheim said, studying a paper on his desk. "Though I confess I'm curious about how you came to have such a strong recommendation from the Swedish Crown Prince."
Jakob kept his expression carefully neutral, though his pulse quickened. "We attended the academy together, sir."
"Yes, so I see. And yet I still fail to understand how a cadet of your background become close enough with His Royal Highness to carry a personal recommendation like this?"
Hal's Order of the Seraphim star pressed gently against Jakob's heart with each breath. "We were introduced when His Royal Highness needed additional instruction in marksmanship, sir. I was honored to assist. We became friendly."
"Honored." Mannerheim's tone could have cut glass. "And now you seek to... assist... Finland?"
"Yes, sir. I wanted to go where I was most needed. And I believe I could be of use to you."
"And His Royal Highness shares this belief?" Mannerheim tapped the letter. "Quite... passionately, it seems."
Jakob fought back the heat threatening to color his cheeks.
He knew exactly when Hal had written those words, and could still feel the press of Hal's lips against his neck, the whispered promises that had come after, the bitten off and gasped words of love and devotion in three languages...
"His Royal Highness has always been a strong advocate for Finland's independence, sir. "
Mannerheim stood abruptly. "Let us be clear, Cadet Eliasberg. While your skills may be useful, the rest of this is highly irregular. There are... proper ways of doing things. Proper relationships between ranks. Between... the different classes."
"I understand completely, sir." and disagree completely, Jakob thought, the hardness of the medal pressing through his coat and shirt.
A long pause. "Times are changing," Mannerheim said finally, more to himself than to Jakob. "Not always for the better."
The winter sun cast long shadows through Mannerheim's office windows as he shuffled through a stack of papers. "You'll report to Commander Erik Tamm. He leads a platoon of other... unconventional volunteers."
The pause before 'unconventional' stung, but Jakob kept his face neutral. Jews, foreigners, anyone who didn't fit the traditional military mold - he knew exactly what Mannerheim meant. At least he'd have company in his outsider status.
"I expect," Mannerheim's gaze fixed on him with laser precision, "that you will conduct yourself with the utmost propriety at all times.
Both in your military duties and in your...
personal affairs." His eyes flicked to the letter on his desk.
"Finland's situation is precarious. We cannot afford distractions or scandals. "
The implied threat hung in the air between them.
Jakob straightened his spine, fighting the urge to touch the medal pressed against his chest. "You'll have no cause for concern, sir.
My focus is entirely on serving Finland's interests.
" The lie tasted bitter, but necessary. His focus would by necessity always be split - between duty and love, between Finland and Hal.
"The barracks are across the parade ground.
Commander Tamm will be expecting you." Mannerheim turned back to his papers, dismissal clear in every line of his body.
Jakob saluted crisply and turned on his heel, mind already racing ahead to what awaited him.
A new commander, new comrades, new challenges - and somehow, through it all, he had to keep his heart's truth hidden behind a soldier's mask.
Jakob stepped out of Mannerheim's office, the weight of the encounter still pressing on his shoulders. Still, he'd survived the interview with his assignment secured—now he just needed to find this Commander Tamm and his unit of "unconventional volunteers."
He approached a clerk seated at a desk outside Mannerheim's office, a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses who didn't bother looking up from his paperwork.
"Excuse me. I need directions to Commander Erik Tamm's unit."
The clerk's pen paused mid-stroke. He glanced up, eyes narrowing as they took in Jakob's uniform and insignia.
"Tamm's outfit?" A snort escaped the clerk's thin lips. "So you're the newest addition to his collection of odd ducks."
Jakob kept his expression neutral despite the flash of irritation. "I've been assigned to his command, yes."
"Of course you have." The clerk's gaze lingered on Jakob's face a moment too long. "Foreigners, outcasts, and now academy boys. Quite the menagerie."
Jakob remained silent, refusing to give the man the satisfaction of a reaction. After a moment, the clerk sighed dramatically and pointed toward a corridor to the left.
"Take that hallway to the end. Cross the yard to the eastern barracks—the old one with the green door. Can't miss it. That's where Tamm keeps his... irregulars."
"Thank you," Jakob said, his tone clipped.
The clerk returned to his papers with a dismissive wave. "Don't thank me yet. You haven't met them."
Jakob turned away, jaw tight. The clerk's attitude confirmed what Mannerheim had implied—Tamm's unit existed on the fringes of the military hierarchy. Outsiders. Just like him.
As Jakob crossed the parade ground, a group of soldiers lounged against the barracks wall, passing a flask between them.
Their uniforms were regulation but worn with a casual disregard that would have earned demerits at Riddarhuset.
One man, sporting a scar that bisected his left eyebrow, spat on the ground as Jakob approached.
Jakob felt his shoulders square involuntarily, his stride becoming more precise, more academic. His training had prepared him for many things, but not for men who seemed to wear violence as comfortably as their uniforms.
He made his way down the corridor, his footsteps echoing against the stone walls.
Two levels down, the air grew cooler, carrying the scent of wet earth and gunpowder.
As he crossed the yard toward the eastern barracks, Jakob squared his shoulders.
Hesitating for just a moment he rapped his knuckles against the splintered wood.
The sound echoed in the quiet yard, unnaturally loud.
The door swung open to reveal a tall, wiry man with floppy light brown hair, open, friendly features and calculating green eyes that instantly assessed Jakob from head to toe. A thin scar traced the line of his jaw, disappearing beneath the collar of his non-regulation shirt.
"Can I help you?" His accent wasn't Finnish or Swedish—Baltic, perhaps?
"Jakob Eliasberg, reporting as ordered by Commander Mannerheim." Jakob straightened, resisting the urge to fidget under the man's scrutiny.
The man's expression shifted from suspicion to mild interest. "Ah, the academy boy." He extended a hand. "Sergeant Jānis Kalni??. Everyone calls me Kalnins."