Chapter 3: Half of a Slice

The dinner hall was mostly empty by the time Jace got there. Servants moved along the edges of the room, clearing plates and folding linens, their movements quiet and practiced. The fire in the great hearth had burned low, casting long shadows across the long tables and the empty chairs.

Joff stood at the center of the room, framed by the candlelight. He'd changed out of his formal coat into something looser, a pale grey tunic that hung off his shoulders like he'd thrown it on without thinking. His hair was still a little damp from earlier, curling at the ends.

He'd placed a single silver dome on the table in front of him.

Jace walked toward it, his footsteps echoing in the quiet hall. He'd left his jingling cloak in the suite. He wasn't about to give Joff the satisfaction of hearing him coming.

"Fashionably late," Joff said. He swept into a bow so theatrical it almost looked like a parody of itself. "I was starting to think you'd chickened out."

"I was thinking about it."

Joff straightened and tapped the silver dome with his finger. "She's still here. Waiting for you. The last piece of honey-spice cake with cream frosting and candied orange peel. The kitchen staff saved it special."

"You bribed them."

"I charmed them." Joff pulled his hand back and revealed the wooden spoon he'd been holding behind his back. "This is my weapon of choice. I hope that's acceptable."

Jace stared at the spoon. It was a perfectly ordinary wooden spoon, the kind you'd use to stir soup. Smooth handle, worn bowl, a faint sheen of oil from years of use.

"That's not a weapon."

"It's not a sword either." Joff twirled it between his fingers like a baton. "But I'm a firm believer that the best duels are fought with whatever's at hand. Also, I didn't trust you not to actually stab me."

"Tempting."

"See? We understand each other." Joff tucked the spoon into his belt like a dagger. "The rules are simple. I'll lift the dome, and when I do, we both go for the cake. First one to get it in their mouth wins."

"That's not a duel. That's a race."

"It's a duel of speed, agility, and pure, unbridled hunger." Joff grinned. "Try to keep up."

He reached for the silver dome.

Jace tensed. He watched Joff's fingers curl around the edge, watched the muscles in his forearm tighten. The dome lifted an inch, two inches. The cake sat underneath, golden and perfect, the frosting catching the candlelight.

Then Joff's hand shot out. He grabbed the cake plate and bolted toward the kitchen door before Jace could even react.

"You cheated!" Jace was already running, his boots sliding on the smooth stone floor.

"Did I? I said I'd lift the dome. I never said when the race started." Joff's voice was almost swallowed by the sound of his own footsteps as he pushed through the kitchen door. "Come on, warm boy. You're slower than I thought."

The kitchen door swung back and hit Jace in the shoulder as he barreled through. He shoved it open, knocking into a servant carrying a stack of clean bowls. The bowls went flying, clattering across the floor, but Jace didn't stop. He saw Joff's pale tunic disappear around a corner.

The kitchen was a maze of counters and stoves, hanging pots and dangling herbs. Steam rose from a cauldron in the corner. A cook shouted something about the cake, about not getting it dirty, but Jace was already past her, weaving between the workstations.

Joff had stopped near the far counter. He was laughing, breathless, holding the cake plate above his head like a trophy.

"Last chance to surrender," he called out. "I'll let you have a bite. Maybe."

Jace didn't answer. He lunged.

Joff dodged, but his foot caught on something—a sack of flour sitting too close to the edge of the counter. The sack tipped. For a moment, everything seemed to slow. The bag tilted, the fabric split, and a cloud of white exploded into the air.

It hit them both at once.

Jace felt the flour fill his mouth, his nose, his eyes. He coughed, sputtering, trying to wipe it off his face, but it clung to his skin like paste. His hair turned white. His clothes turned white. He looked like a ghost that had crawled out of a baking accident.

Joff was in worse shape. He'd been closer to the burst, and the flour had caught him mid-laugh. It coated his tongue and sent him into a coughing fit that doubled him over. The cake plate slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor, the slice sliding off and skidding across the stone.

They stood there, both of them covered in dust, wheezing and spluttering. The kitchen had gone quiet. The cook stood frozen, her spoon halfway to her mouth. The servant who'd nearly been knocked over was staring at them like they'd lost their minds.

Joff was the first to recover. He straightened, wiped the flour from his eyes, and looked down at his ruined tunic.

"You're a menace," he said, but there was no heat in it.

"You started it."

"I started the duel. You started the flour cloud." Joff picked a piece of flour-crusted frosting off his sleeve and flicked it at Jace. It landed on his chin.

Jace was about to say something sharp when he saw Joff's foot slide on something. A puddle of milk, gleaming under the kitchen light, spilled from a knocked-over pitcher that had been sitting on the edge of the counter.

Joff's hands flew up. His feet went out from under him. He hit the floor with a thud that shook the tiles. The cake slice skittered further away, spinning to a stop near a copper pot.

Jace should have laughed. He should have walked over, picked up the cake, and declared himself the winner. That was the plan. That was what this whole ridiculous game was about.

Instead, he saw Joff lying on the floor, flour all over his face, milk soaking through his tunic, and something loosened in his chest.

He stepped forward to grab the cake. But his own feet found the same puddle of milk, and he felt the floor slide away from under him. He crashed backward into a stack of copper pots that toppled with a sound like a hundred bells.

Jace lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling, flour dust still settling around him. Pots and pans clattered to silence around him. Somewhere to his left, Joff was laughing. Not a polite laugh, not a theatrical one. A real laugh, raw and helpless, the kind that came from somewhere deep.

He turned his head. Joff was still on the floor too, flat on his back, staring at the same ceiling. His chest shook with laughter. Milk pooled around his shoulder.

"I got you too," Joff managed between gasps.

"Yeah. You got me."

They lay there for a moment, two princes covered in flour and milk, surrounded by scattered pots and a lost slice of cake. The cook had given up on them entirely. She was in the corner, arms crossed, muttering something about nobility and common sense.

Joff sat up first. He crawled over to where the cake slice had stopped, picked it up off the floor, and examined it carefully. The bottom was smeared with milk and flour. A corner had cracked off.

"Still edible," he announced.

"You're going to eat that?"

"I'm going to share it." Joff broke the slice in half with his fingers and held one piece up to Jace. "Truce?"

Jace looked at the offered half. Then at Joff's flour-dusted face, his milk-stained tunic, his ridiculous grin.

He took the cake.

They'd both grabbed for it, tugged, and the plate had cracked between them. The slice split clean in two, each half landing in separate hands. That's what Joff was holding when he offered Jace the piece. That's the half Jace took.

Jace looked down at the cake in his palm. The frosting was smudged with flour and the bottom had picked up a faint grey sheen from the stone floor. It was a mess. It was also the most honest thing anyone had given him since he'd arrived in this frozen castle.

He took a bite.

The honey and spice hit his tongue, the cream frosting melted against the roof of his mouth. It was good. Really good. The kind of good that made you forget you were eating off a kitchen floor in a foreign kingdom, covered in baking ingredients, sitting next to your mortal enemy.

Joff watched him chew with an expression of theatrical anticipation. "Well?"

"It's fine."

"Fine? That's the best cake in the entire Frostlands. The cook spent three hours on it. She uses imported orange peel and a secret blend of spices she won't even tell me."

"It's good cake," Jace admitted.

Joff beamed like he'd just won the duel anyway. He hopped up onto the counter, flour puffing around him, and swung his legs while he ate. Jace watched him for a moment, then pulled himself up onto the same counter, leaving a respectable distance between them.

They ate in the wreckage of the kitchen. Pots scattered around their feet. A smear of milk drying on the floor. The cook had retreated to the far corner, muttering and shaking her head, but she kept glancing over with something that might have been amusement.

Joff finished his half and licked the frosting off his finger. Slow and deliberate, like he wanted to savor every grain of sugar. Jace caught himself watching and looked away.

"You've got flour on your eyelashes," Joff said.

"So do you."

"Must be a new fashion." Joff wiped his face with his sleeve, but it only smeared the flour deeper into the fabric. "I think I'll start a trend. The Dusty Prince look. Very sophisticated."

Jace smirked and took another bite of his cake. "You'd look good in anything."

The words came out before he could stop them. He froze, the cake halfway to his mouth, suddenly aware of what he'd just said.

Joff's eyebrows went up. A slow grin spread across his face. "Careful, Sunvale. Someone might think you're being nice."

"I was being sarcastic."

"Sure you were."

Jace focused on his cake. The silence stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that felt like a held breath, waiting for someone to break it.

Joff's hand drifted toward him. He'd picked up a crumb that had fallen on the counter between them. He held it out, pinched between thumb and forefinger, his palm open.

"Here. You dropped this."

Jace looked at the crumb. Then at Joff's hand. The offer was so small, so ridiculous, that he almost laughed.

He reached out and took the crumb from Joff's palm.

Their fingers brushed.

The touch was brief. Barely a second. But Jace felt it all the way up his arm, a jolt that had nothing to do with the cold. Joff's hand was warm. Warmer than he'd expected. The thought settled somewhere in Jace's chest and refused to leave.

Joff pulled his hand back and looked away, but not before Jace caught the faint color rising in his cheeks. The flour made it harder to see, but it was there. A hint of pink beneath the white.

Jace ate the crumb. It was just a crumb. It tasted like nothing.

They smiled at each other. Not a smirk. Not a challenge. Just a smile, awkward and genuine, two idiots covered in flour sitting on a counter in a ruined kitchen.

Joff opened his mouth to say something.

Lady Elara stepped into the doorway.

She filled the frame like a blade sliding into a sheath. Still in her riding leathers, her hair pulled back tight, her face carved from stone. She looked at the mess, at the two princes, at the half-eaten cake in Jace's hand. Her expression didn't change.

"Your Highness." Her voice was flat. "A word. Alone."

Jace felt the warmth drain out of the room. He looked at Joff, who had gone still beside him. The easy smile had vanished, replaced by something guarded.

"Now," Elara added.

Jace slid off the counter. His boots hit the floor with a soft thud. He handed the remaining cake to Joff without thinking, their fingers brushing again, quicker this time.

"I'll be back."

Joff said nothing. He just watched.

Jace followed Elara out of the kitchen.

Elara led him through a narrow corridor and into a small alcove tucked behind a tapestry. The space was barely big enough for the two of them, a cramped pocket of shadows lit by a single candle on a wall sconce. She pulled the tapestry closed behind them, sealing off the kitchen sounds, the distant chatter of servants, everything.

Jace leaned against the cold stone wall. His flour-dusted clothes clung to his skin. A residue of sugar and spice still sat on his tongue.

"What's wrong?"

Elara didn't answer right away. She stood with her back to him, one hand pressed flat against the stone, her shoulders tight. When she turned, her face was harder than he'd ever seen it.

"Your father sent me a raven this morning."

Something cold crawled up Jace's spine. "And?"

"And he gave me new orders." She paused. "After the wedding, you're to ensure Prince Joff doesn't survive the night."

The words didn't register at first. They hung in the air like smoke, shapeless and strange. Jace blinked at her, waiting for her to laugh, to say she was joking. She didn't.

"What?"

"Poison. A fall. A blade in the dark. The method doesn't matter, as long as it looks like an accident." Elara's voice was flat, clinical. "Your father doesn't want the Frostlands to have an heir once the truce is sealed. He wants the bloodline cut."

Jace's blood turned to ice. He felt it in his fingertips, in the hollow of his chest, in the space behind his eyes where thoughts were supposed to live. "He can't—he wouldn't—"

"He would. He is." Elara stepped closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. "I'm telling you this because I needed you to know. Not because I intend to follow the order."

Jace pushed off the wall. His hands were shaking. He pressed them against his thighs to still them. "You're his commander. You swore an oath."

"I swore an oath to the crown, not to murder." Elara's jaw tightened. "And I swore one to you, years ago, when I taught you how to hold a blade. I told you I'd always have your back. That hasn't changed."

The alcove felt smaller now. The walls pressed in. Jace could hear his own breathing, too fast, too shallow.

"He wants Joff dead," he said slowly, testing the words. "After the wedding. After we're married."

"Yes."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Elara held his gaze. There was something ancient in her eyes, something tired. "Because I think you already know what you want to do about it. And I think you need someone to tell you it's okay to choose."

Jace turned away from her. He pressed his palm against the stone wall, felt the cold seep into his skin. His mind was a tangle of half-formed thoughts, none of them coherent.

His father had ordered an assassination. Jace was supposed to be a tool, a pawn, a dagger aimed at Joff's heart. The marriage wasn't peace. It was a trap.

And Joff—

Jace thought of the flour-covered prince sitting on the kitchen counter, licking frosting off his finger. The genuine laugh. The crumb offered from an open palm.

"I can't do it."

"Good."

"But I can't stop him either." Jace turned back to face her. "He's the king. If he wants Joff dead, he'll find another way. He'll send someone else. He'll—"

"Then you make sure it doesn't happen." Elara's voice was steady. "You watch. You learn. You build alliances. You pay attention to who comes and goes. And when someone makes a move, you're there to stop it."

"That's not a plan."

"It's a start." She reached out and squeezed his shoulder, a rare gesture. "You're not alone in this, Jace. You have people who see what's right. Use them."

She pulled the tapestry aside and stepped back into the corridor, leaving him alone in the candlelight.

His mind was still spinning. He leaned his forehead against the wall and breathed. Once. Twice. The stone was cold and rough against his skin. He stayed there until his heart stopped racing and the trembling in his hands quieted.

When he finally stepped out of the alcove, the corridor was empty. Elara was gone. The kitchen sounds had faded. The castle hummed with the quiet energy of evening settling in.

He needed to move. His legs carried him without direction, through corridors and past guards who nodded as he passed. He didn't know where he was going. He just knew he couldn't stay still.

He ended up in the garden.

It was tucked behind the east wing, a small courtyard bordered by frosted hedges and bare trees. A layer of frost covered the stone bench at the center. The sky above was a pale grey, the sun already gone, leaving only the cold twilight.

Joff was there.

He sat on the frost-covered bench, his ruined tunic still dusted with flour, a small handful of breadcrumbs in his palm. Sparrows had gathered at his feet, hopping forward and pecking at the crumbs he tossed. He moved slowly, carefully, as if he didn't want to startle them.

Jace stopped at the edge of the garden. The shadows of a bare tree swallowed him, hiding him from view.

He watched Joff feed the birds.

There was something unguarded about it. The way Joff's shoulders dropped. The way his lips moved in a soft murmur, probably nonsense words, the kind of things you said to creatures that couldn't understand you. A sparrow landed on his knee and he didn't flinch. He just dipped his head and let it take a crumb from his fingers.

The flour was still in his hair, catching the pale light. His hands were pink from the cold.

Jace felt the weight of the secret settle deeper into his chest. He could walk out there. He could tell Joff everything. They could figure it out together, two princes in a garden, sharing secrets instead of cake.

But what would that change? Warn him, and Joff would live in fear. Warn him, and the fragile thing between them would shatter under the weight of the truth. Jace didn't know how to say my father wants you dead without also saying and I'm supposed to be the one to do it.

He watched another sparrow land on Joff's shoulder.

Then he made the decision. He'd watch. He'd learn. He'd be there, in the shadows, every time someone got too close. And if anyone tried to harm Joff, they'd have to go through him first.

Joff wouldn't know. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But Jace would be ready.

He stayed in the shadows until the sparrows flew away and Joff stood, brushing crumbs from his lap. Then Jace turned and walked back into the castle, the cold following him all the way.