Chapter 2: The Art of Small Wars

Jace woke to gray light filtering through the narrow window. The fire had burned down to embers, and the cold had crept into the room while he wasn't paying attention. He sat up from the chair where he'd spent the night—his neck stiff, his back complaining—and looked at the bed.

The tart was still there. It had dried into the pillow overnight, the filling dark and crusted, the pastry flaking like dead leaves. A few ants had found their way to it, crawling across the fabric in a neat little line.

He should have thrown it out. He knew that. But leaving it there felt like a statement, even if no one was around to read it.

Jace pushed himself to his feet and stretched, working the knots out of his shoulders. That's when he noticed.

His trunk had been moved. He'd left it near the door last night, too tired to bother unpacking. Now it sat at the foot of the bed Joff had claimed, the lid open, clothes spilling out like innards. Jace's spare cloak hung from the bedpost. His boots stood next to Joff's, lined up neat and deliberate.

The whole left side of the room—the side closest to the hearth, the warmer side—was now covered in Joff's things. A silk robe draped over the chair. A stack of books on the table. A half-empty glass of something dark on the windowsill. It looked like Joff had taken a tour of the room and dropped something everywhere.

Jace grabbed the tart-pillow by the corner and dropped it on the floor. The crust cracked against the stone. The ants scattered.

He stood there for a moment, breathing slow, letting the irritation settle into something he could work with. Then he walked to Joff's wardrobe and pulled the doors open.

The clothes inside smelled of cedar and something floral. Everything was neatly hung, organized by color, each garment pressed and pristine. Jace ran his fingers along the row of coats until he found what he was looking for at the bottom.

The boots. Black leather, polished to a shine, the kind of formal wear Joff would need for council meetings and diplomatic dinners. Jace picked one up. It was light, well-made, lined with fur that would keep out the cold.

He glanced around the room. Joff's riding boots sat by the door, scuffed and muddy. Across the room, near the writing desk, a pair of ceremonial slippers rested on the floor—too small, too delicate, the kind of thing you'd wear to a ball if you wanted your feet to hurt by midnight.

Jace grabbed the riding boot. He grabbed the slipper. Then he knelt beside the wardrobe, pulled out Joff's polished formal boots, and made the swap.

It felt good. Childish, maybe, but good.

He was washing his hands in the basin when he heard the lock click.

Joff's door swung open and he stepped out, already dressed in a loose shirt and trousers, his hair still damp from whatever morning routine he'd done. He yawned, stretched, scratched at his collarbone. Then he noticed Jace standing there and offered a lazy smile.

"Still here? I was hoping the cold would drive you back south by sunrise."

"Lucky for you, I'm stubborn."

"Lucky me." Joff padded across the room in bare feet and knelt beside the wardrobe. He pulled out the left boot first, slid it on without looking, and frowned. His toes hit the slipper's narrow end and he stopped, foot half-in, half-out.

He pulled the boot off. Stared at it. Then reached in and pulled out the slipper.

Jace watched from the basin, drying his hands on a towel. He kept his face blank.

Joff held the slipper up like it was an insect he'd found in his salad. Then he laughed. Actually laughed, a short burst that echoed off the stone walls.

"You swapped my boots."

"Did I?"

"You did." Joff tossed the slipper onto the bed and shook his head. "That's adorable. I expected something more creative from a warrior prince."

"Be careful what you wish for."

Joff's smile widened. He pulled on the mismatched boots—riding boot on the left, too-small slipper on the right—and stood. Walked a few steps. Limped around the room. The slipper forced him to hobble, and the riding boot clunked against the floor with every step.

He looked ridiculous. Jace allowed himself a small, tight grin.

"You're a menace," Joff said, still smiling. "I like it."

He sat down at the table near the hearth—the one with the books and the half-glass—and started arranging his breakfast. A servant had brought a tray at some point while Jace was sleeping. Bread, butter, a pot of tea, a small jar of honey. Joff poured himself a cup and stirred it idly.

Jace turned back to the basin. He needed to shave. His jaw itched from a day of travel and a night of nothing but firelight. He picked up the shaving soap, worked it into a lather with the brush, and spread it across his face.

It smelled wrong. Sweet. Like something that belonged in a kitchen.

He stopped halfway through and touched the foam on his cheek. It was tacky under his fingers, sticking to his skin instead of sliding off. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger and it stretched like syrup.

Joff was watching. Jace could feel it without turning around.

He brought his hand to his mouth and touched the foam to his tongue.

Honey. Mixed with soap. A sticky, sweet, floral mess that clung to his beard like glue.

Joff's laugh was louder this time. He didn't bother hiding it behind a hand. He just leaned back in his chair and let it roll out of him, full and warm and irritating.

"Figured you'd enjoy a little sweetness," Joff said. "Given how sour you are."

Jace wiped his face with the towel. The foam stuck to the fabric, refused to let go. He'd need hot water and a lot of scrubbing to get it off. Maybe a knife.

"You're going to regret that."

"Probably. But not yet." Joff took a sip of his tea and sighed with theatrical satisfaction.

Jace finished his shave as best he could, scraping through the honey-gummed mess with a blade that kept catching. By the time he was done, his skin was raw and his temper was frayed. He washed his face in the basin twice, three times, until the water ran clear.

Joff was still at the table, buttering a piece of bread. The jar of honey sat open beside him, the spoon still resting inside.

Jace walked over slowly. Calmly. Like a man who had a plan.

"Oh, I forgot to mention." Joff looked up, the bread halfway to his mouth. "There's a council meeting this morning. My father wants us there. Something about patrol routes and—"

Jace picked up the honey jar. He walked to Joff's teacup, tipped the jar, and let a generous stream of honey pour into the dark liquid. Then he set the jar down and stepped back.

"Figured you'd enjoy a little sweetness," Jace said. "Given how sour you are."

Joff stared at the teacup. The honey had settled at the bottom, a golden swirl spreading through the tea. He looked up at Jace, his expression unreadable.

Then he lifted the cup to his lips.

The frog came with it.

It must have been hiding in the honey jar, curled up in the sticky warmth. When Joff tilted the cup, the creature tumbled out in a tangle of wet limbs and landed on the table with a wet slap. It sat there for a moment, blinking, its tiny throat pulsing.

Joff froze. The cup hovered at his lips. He looked at the frog. The frog looked at him.

"Got you a pet," Jace said.

Joff set the cup down very carefully. The frog hopped once, twice, and disappeared under the table. Joff tracked it with his eyes, then looked up at Jace.

The silence stretched.

And then Joff's lip twitched. A crack in the facade. He pressed his palm to his mouth, trying to hold it in, but the laugh broke through anyway—a helpless, wheezing thing that doubled him over the table.

"That's—" He gasped, shook his head. "That's actually good."

Jace felt the corner of his mouth tug. He fought it down.

"I have my moments."

"You really do." Joff wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'm keeping the frog, by the way. I'm naming him after you."

"Don't."

"Too late. He's Jace now." Joff peered under the table. "Jace the Frog. He'll live in my pocket and I'll feed him crumbs from the council table."

There was something about the way he said it—the lightness, the genuine amusement—that made Jace hesitate. He'd expected anger. Petulance. A tantrum. Instead, he got laughter and a name and the kind of smile that looked like it didn't come out often.

A servant cleared her throat from the doorway.

"Your Highnesses." She bowed, holding a scroll. "The morning council convenes in half an hour."

Joff straightened. He smoothed his shirt, ran a hand through his damp hair. The smile faded into something more neutral, more princely.

"Right. Let me find my frog." He crouched and scooped the creature up from under the table, cradling it in both hands. "Coming, Jace?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

Joff tucked the frog into his pocket and walked toward the door, the mismatched shoes clunking against the stone. Jace followed, still sticky, still irritated, still half-wondering if he'd won or lost that round.

They walked through the corridor side by side, Joff's mismatched shoes echoing in uneven rhythm—clunk, shuffle, clunk, shuffle. The frog made a small croaking sound from inside his pocket, and Joff patted it absently like a man comforting a nervous pet.

"We should probably change," Joff said, glancing at Jace. "Can't show up to council looking like we just crawled out of a ditch."

"We look fine."

"You have honey in your hair."

Jace reached up and touched a strand. It was stiff. Sticky. He dropped his hand and said nothing.

They reached the suite and Joff pushed the door open. The frog was already making itself at home, hopping out of Joff's pocket and landing on the bed. Joff let it wander. He crossed to his wardrobe, pulled out a formal coat of deep blue wool with silver embroidery, and started dressing with practiced efficiency.

Jace went to his own corner. The one that used to be his side of the room before Joff redecorated. He found his formal cloak hanging from a hook near the window. It was a good cloak—heavy wool, lined with fur, the kind of thing meant to keep a Sunward prince warm in a Frostlands winter. He pulled it off the hook and swung it over his shoulders.

Something shifted inside the lining.

Jace paused. He ran his hand along the inner seam and felt something small and hard sewn into the fabric. He pushed his fingers into the lining, found the stitching, and pulled.

A small brass bell popped out. It clinked against the stone floor.

Then another. And another.

Jace turned the cloak over. The hem was lined with tiny bells, each one sewn neatly into the wool, hidden inside a fold of fabric. He shook the cloak and the whole thing jingled like a merchant's cart.

Joff was watching from across the room. He'd finished buttoning his coat and stood there with his hands clasped behind his back, a look of innocent curiosity on his face.

"Something wrong?"

Jace held up the cloak. It chimed softly, helplessly, a sound that would follow him everywhere.

"You sewed bells into my cloak."

"Did I?"

Jace let the cloak drop. It landed on the floor with a sad little jingle. "You're impossible."

"Thank you." Joff picked up a comb and ran it through his hair. "I try."

A knock at the door saved Jace from having to respond. A chamberlain entered, a thin man with a long face and a scroll in his hand. He bowed to both of them.

"Your Highnesses. The council is ready for you. If you'll follow me."

Jace grabbed his cloak from the floor. He couldn't leave it behind—he'd freeze without it. He threw it over his shoulders and the bells sang with every movement. Four steps to the door, four jingles. The chamberlain's eyebrow twitched.

Joff fell into step beside him. He'd changed his shoes—the mismatched pair was gone, replaced by proper boots that fit. He looked composed, polished, every inch the Frostland prince. The only hint of chaos was the tiny bulge in his coat pocket where the frog had returned to its hiding place.

They walked through the castle in silence. The corridors were busy now, servants and guards moving with purpose, all of them stepping aside as the princes passed. Jace's cloak jingled with every stride. He caught a few servants staring and wanted to disappear into the stonework.

The council chamber was a large room with a long oak table at its center. Heavy curtains covered the windows, blocking out the gray morning light. Candles burned in iron stands, casting long shadows across the walls. King Roderic sat at the head of the table, flanked by advisors in furs and silver chains. Lady Elara was there too, seated near the far end, her sharp eyes tracking Jace as he entered.

Jace took his seat. The bells under his cloak chimed as he settled into the chair. A few advisors glanced at him. He ignored them.

Joff sat across the table, directly opposite. He folded his hands in front of him and smiled pleasantly at no one in particular.

The meeting began with reports. Grain stores, troop movements, the condition of the roads. Jace listened with half an ear, waiting for the right moment. He'd been trained for this. His father had drilled strategy into him since he was old enough to hold a map. He knew the terrain, knew the weaknesses in the Frostlands' defensive lines, knew exactly what needed to be done.

When the discussion turned to the eastern border, Jace spoke.

"The patrol routes are too predictable." He leaned forward, tapping a finger on the map spread across the table. "You've got the same rotation repeating every three days. Any scout worth his salt would spot the pattern in a week."

One of the advisors, a heavyset man with a gray beard, frowned. "And what would you suggest, Your Highness?"

"Reinforce the eastern routes. Station cavalry at the pass—Sunward tactics, quick response teams that can cover ground faster than foot patrols. If there's a breach, you want someone there before the enemy has time to exploit it."

The room went quiet. A few advisors exchanged glances. King Roderic's face was unreadable, but Jace noticed his fingers drumming on the table.

Then Joff spoke.

"And leave our supply lines exposed to every Frostlands blizzard?"

Jace's head snapped up. Joff was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, a lazy smile playing on his lips. His voice was light, almost casual, but there was an edge underneath.

"I'd expect a warm-land boy to think of that," Joff continued. "Cavalry in a Frostlands winter. They'd freeze before they reached the second pass. The horses would founder. The supply carts would get stuck in snowdrifts. But no—please, go on. Tell us more about how to fight cold with sunshine."

The advisors murmured. A few nodded. The heavyset man stroked his beard and looked at Jace with new suspicion.

Jace felt heat creep up his neck. He kept his voice steady, but it came out tighter than he wanted. "I've trained for winter campaigns. I know what the horses can handle."

"Do you?" Joff tilted his head. "Have you ever actually seen a Frostlands winter? Not just ridden through one. Lived through one. Watched the snow pile up until it reaches the second-story windows."

Jace said nothing. Joff had a point. He'd trained in theory, on maps and in simulations. He'd never stood guard in a blizzard.

Joff's smile softened, just slightly. "It's a good suggestion. It's just not practical here."

There was something in his tone that wasn't quite mockery. A flicker of acknowledgment, maybe. Like he was saying I know you're not stupid, but you're wrong.

Jace sat back in his chair. His cloak jingled. The sound felt louder in the silence.

The discussion moved on without him. He listened, but the heat in his ears didn't fade. He watched Joff across the table, saw the way he leaned into the conversation, the sharpness in his eyes when he spoke. This wasn't the same prince who'd left a tart on a pillow. This was someone who paid attention, who knew his kingdom the way Jace knew his sword.

The council dragged on for another hour. By the time King Roderic dismissed them, Jace's head was pounding. He rose from his chair, bells chiming, and caught Joff's eye.

Joff gave him a small, almost apologetic shrug. Then he turned and walked out of the room, the frog's nose poking out of his pocket.

The advisors filed out slowly, their voices low and measured. Jace lingered at the table, watching them go. His fingers traced the edge of the map, the lines of the eastern passes where his suggestion had fallen apart.

He looked up and saw Joff standing by the door. The frog had climbed higher, peeking out of his pocket with bulging eyes. Joff was talking to one of the advisors, nodding along with whatever the man was saying. But his eyes weren't on the advisor. They were on Jace.

That same glint. Brief, sharp, like a blade catching light.

Jace had seen it during the pastry incident. He'd seen it at the signing ceremony. It wasn't mockery. It wasn't amusement. It was calculation. The kind of look a general gave when he was reading the battlefield.

Joff noticed Jace staring and his expression flickered. Then he turned back to the advisor, said something that made the man laugh, and walked out of the room.

Jace followed.

The corridor was emptier now. Most of the council members had dispersed to their duties. Servants moved along the walls, carrying scrolls and trays, paying no attention to the two princes. Jace spotted Joff heading toward the east wing and quickened his pace.

"Joff."

Joff didn't stop. He kept walking, his boots clicking against the stone, the frog bouncing in his pocket.

Jace caught up and grabbed his arm.

Joff stopped. He looked down at Jace's hand on his sleeve, then up at Jace's face. The frog croaked.

"Are we going to keep playing children's games?" Jace let go, but he didn't step back. His voice came out harder than he meant it to. "Or do you actually have something to say?"

Joff tilted his head. The lazy smile crept back onto his face, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't." Jace stepped closer. "I saw you in there. That thing you do—the act, the jokes, the pretending like none of this matters. I saw the way you looked at the map. You knew my plan wouldn't work before I finished talking. You just waited for me to look stupid."

Joff's smile faded. He studied Jace for a long moment, his face unreadable. The frog hopped out of his pocket and landed on his shoulder, settling there like a tiny ornament.

"Fine." Joff leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. The frog adjusted its grip. "You want honesty? You're not wrong. Your plan was good on paper, but it wouldn't survive a Frostlands winter. The cavalry would freeze, the horses would break their legs on ice, and the supply lines would collapse within a week. I didn't say it to embarrass you. I said it because someone had to."

"Then why not say it like that? Why the theatrics?"

Joff laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. "Because that's not how it works here. You think my father would listen to a polite correction? He'd see it as weakness. I have to play the fool so I can win the argument."

Jace stared at him. The words settled in his chest, heavy and strange.

"So everything—the tart, the bells, the frog—that's all an act?"

"Most of it." Joff shrugged. "Some of it's just fun."

Jace felt something shift in his stomach. He couldn't tell if it was anger or something else.

"So what now?" he asked. "We keep throwing frogs at each other until one of us gets bored?"

Joff's grin returned, sharper this time. "That depends. You want to settle this like men, or like children?"

"Depends on what you have in mind."

Joff pushed off the wall and walked a few steps down the corridor. He stopped, turned, and spread his hands. The frog hopped from his shoulder to his palm and he held it up like a trophy.

"Fine. I'll settle this properly." His voice dropped, theatrical and grand. "A duel. Tonight. For the last slice of cake at dinner."

Jace blinked.

"A duel."

"Unless you're afraid."

"Of cake?"

"Of losing." Joff's grin widened. "I'll even let you pick the weapons."

Jace stared at him. The frog stared at him. A servant passed by, carrying a stack of linens, and nearly tripped when she heard the word "duel."

"You're ridiculous," Jace said.

"Probably." Joff extended his hand, palm open. "But you're still going to accept."

Jace looked at the hand. The offer hung in the air between them, absurd and genuine all at once. He thought about the tart on his pillow. The bells in his cloak. The honey on his face.

He thought about the look in Joff's eyes during the council meeting. The sharpness. The intelligence.

He took the hand.

Joff's grip was firm, warmer than Jace expected. They held for a moment, two princes in a cold corridor, a frog perched on one of their shoulders.

"Tonight," Joff said. "Dinner hall. Bring your appetite."

"I'll bring my sword."

"You'll miss. I'll bring my charm."

The frog croaked. Joff laughed, tucked the creature back into his pocket, and walked away. His footsteps echoed down the corridor, fading into the castle's quiet hum.

Jace stood there, his hand still tingling from the grip. A servant passed by and gave him a bewildered look. He ignored her.

A duel. Over cake.

He shook his head, but he couldn't stop the smile that tugged at his lips.