Chapter 4: The Envoy's Toast

Jace didn't remember changing out of his flour-dusted clothes. He didn't remember the servants fussing over him, brushing the last traces of baking ingredients from his hair, or lacing him into the formal coat of deep blue and gold that now felt too tight across his shoulders.

He sat at the long table in the great hall, and all he could think about was the weight of Elara's words.

The hall had transformed since the signing ceremony that morning. More candles had been lit, hundreds of them, their flames reflected in the frost-covered windows that lined the walls. Ice sculptures stood at intervals along the tables—a wolf mid-howl, a stag with branching antlers, a hawk with wings spread wide. The candlelight caught their edges and turned them into something almost alive, like frozen ghosts watching the proceedings.

Jace's gaze drifted across the room. Sunward nobles sat on one side, Frostlands on the other. The line between them was clear, marked by the slight gap running down the center of the table. Everyone was dressed in their finest. Silks and velvets and furs. Jeweled pins and silver chains. A forest of goblets and platters and serving dishes that steamed in the cold air.

He found Joff across from him. Not directly across—there was a space of two chairs between them, part of some diplomatic seating arrangement Jace had already forgotten the logic of. Joff had changed into a silver-gray coat with intricate frost-pattern embroidery along the collar. His hair had been combed back, still slightly damp. He looked composed. Almost elegant.

He also looked like he hadn't stopped thinking about the flour-covered kitchen either, because when his eyes met Jace's, the corner of his mouth twitched.

Jace looked away.

The plates in front of him held food he couldn't name. Some kind of fish in a pale sauce. Root vegetables roasted with herbs. A bread roll that was still warm. He'd taken a bite of the roll when no one was watching, but it tasted like ash in his mouth.

His father sat at the head of the table, a position of honor that also let him keep an eye on everyone. King Aldric had barely glanced at Jace since they sat down. He was deep in conversation with a Frostlands councilor, nodding gravely, his voice low enough that Jace couldn't catch the words.

King Roderic sat at the opposite head, equally distant. The two kings formed the bookends of the hall, and between them lay a field of careful smiles and guarded glances.

Servants moved along the edges of the room, refilling goblets and clearing plates. The meal had been going on for what felt like hours. Jace had lost count of the courses. He kept his hands busy with the stem of his goblet, turning it in slow circles.

The envoy stood up.

Jace recognized him from that morning—one of the Frostlands councilors, the one with thin lips and a permanent squint. He raised his glass, and the room fell into a polite hush.

"A toast," the envoy said, his voice carrying across the hall. "To the union of our two great kingdoms. May it bring lasting peace."

A murmur of approval rippled through the room. People lifted their glasses. Jace started to raise his own.

The envoy wasn't done.

"And to the young Prince of Sunward." He turned, and his gaze landed on Jace like something cold and damp. "We've heard such stories of his courage on the battlefield. I do hope he finds our Frostlands winters... manageable. It takes a certain constitution to survive here. One wonders if the warmth of the south has prepared him for what lies ahead."

The words hung in the air. They were smooth. They were polite. They were also a knife wrapped in silk.

Jace felt the heat rise to his face. His grip tightened on the goblet. The metal bit into his palm. He could feel the weight of every eye in the room turning toward him, waiting to see how he'd respond.

"I appreciate the concern," he said, the words coming out sharper than he intended. "But I've survived worse than cold weather."

The envoy's thin smile widened. "Have you, Your Highness?"

Jace opened his mouth.

A hand touched his wrist.

The pressure was light, barely there. Jace looked down and saw Joff's fingers resting against the inside of his arm, just above where his sleeve ended. The touch was warm. Warmer than it had any right to be in this frozen hall.

He looked up. Joff was already rising from his seat, a lazy grin spreading across his face like he'd just heard the funniest joke of the evening.

"Surely you're jesting, Lord Elric." Joff's voice rang out, light and easy. He raised his own glass, tilting it toward the envoy. "Prince Jace has survived an entire day in my company. I think we can safely say the cold holds no terrors for him."

A few nobles chuckled. The tension in the room cracked, just slightly. Joff turned, catching Jace's eye, and there was something in his expression that said: Follow my lead.

Jace forced his jaw to unclench. He lifted his chin and let a smile touch his lips. "The Frostlands hospitality has been... memorable."

The envoy's smile faltered. He looked between the two princes, clearly trying to assess whether he'd been outmaneuvered. The room was still watching, but the mood had shifted. The edge was gone, replaced by something lighter.

Joff kept his glass raised. "Shall we drink to that, Lord Elric? To memorable hospitality?"

He waited. The silence stretched.

The envoy lowered his eyes. "To hospitality," he said, and drank.

Joff drank with him, and the rest of the room followed. The toast settled like dust after a storm. The next course arrived—a roasted bird of some kind, carried in on silver platters—and the conversation resumed its low hum.

Jace's wrist was still warm where Joff's hand had been.

He watched Joff sit back down, pick up his fork, and spear a piece of meat with practiced ease. He didn't look at Jace. He didn't need to. The message had already been delivered, clear and unmistakable.

I've got your back.

Jace took a long drink from his goblet. The wine was tart and cold, and it did nothing to steady his nerves.

But the warmth on his wrist stayed.

The warmth on his wrist stayed. Jace curled his fingers around the goblet again, feeling the cold metal against his palm. Across the table, Joff had already turned back to his plate, but he was grinning at something one of the Frostlands nobles said, and the sound of his laugh carried across the hall.

He raised his glass again, this time toward the envoy. "To hospitality indeed. And to our southern guest, who I'm told has been practicing his snowball technique all afternoon."

The table nearest them erupted in chuckles. A few of the Frostlands nobles shook their heads, but they were smiling. Joff had a way of making the whole room bend toward him, pulling everyone into his orbit whether they wanted to be there or not.

Jace caught the cue. He set his goblet down and spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm learning. The Frostlands have many lessons to teach."

It was the right thing to say. He saw it in the way a few of the older nobles nodded, in the way the woman beside Joff's father allowed herself a small smile. The envoy—Lord Elric—stood there for a moment longer, his glass half-raised, the smile still frozen on his thin face.

Then he drank.

King Roderic watched the exchange from his end of the table. His expression was unreadable, the face of a man who'd spent decades learning to hide his thoughts behind cold eyes. But after a long moment, he gave a single nod. Approval. Or at least assent.

The tension that had gripped the room dissolved like frost under morning sun. Servants swept in with the next course, and the conversation resumed its low, comfortable hum.

Jace let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

The meal continued. More courses arrived. Roasted meats and stewed vegetables and delicate pastries filled with spiced cream. Jace ate mechanically, his mind elsewhere. He kept glancing at Joff, who seemed entirely at ease, laughing with the nobles around him, telling some story that involved exaggerated hand gestures and a punchline that made an old lady near him choke on her wine.

But every now and then, Joff's eyes would flick toward Jace. Brief. Assessable. As if he was checking to make sure Jace was still there, still okay.

The final course was cleared. The candles had burned low, their flames pooling in pools of wax on the silver holders. King Roderic rose, and the room rose with him. He said something about the evening being concluded, about the morrow bringing more discussions, about the wedding preparations moving forward. Jace heard the words but didn't process them.

His father caught his eye from across the room. A look that said: We'll speak later.

Jace looked away.

People began to disperse. Nobles gathered in small clusters near the fireplaces, exchanging goodnights and last-minute pleasantries. Servants moved through the crowd, collecting goblets and napkins and the last crumbs of the feast.

Jace slipped toward the side door.

He moved without thinking, his feet carrying him into the narrow corridor that ran behind the great hall. The servants' passage. It was dimly lit, with torches set into iron brackets at irregular intervals, their flames guttering in the draft. The stone walls were rough, untouched by the tapestries and paintings that decorated the main halls. It smelled of damp and old smoke and something faintly metallic.

He heard footsteps behind him.

He didn't turn. He kept walking, deeper into the corridor, until he reached a spot where the torches cast long shadows and the sounds of the hall were muffled to a distant murmur.

Joff's voice came from behind him. "You're going the wrong way if you're trying to find your rooms."

Jace stopped.

He turned around.

Joff stood a few feet away, silhouetted against the torchlight. He'd loosened his collar, the silver-gray coat hanging open at the throat. His hair had started to curl again at the ends, escaping the comb. He looked tired and alert at the same time, like a fox that had been running all day and had finally stopped to listen.

"You followed me," Jace said.

"You made it obvious." Joff took a step closer. "What's wrong?"

Jace opened his mouth. Closed it. The words were there, lined up behind his teeth, but they didn't want to come out. He'd been carrying them since the kitchen, since the alcove, since Elara had pressed the truth into his hands like a hot coal.

He couldn't hold it anymore.

"There's a plot to kill you." His voice came out low and flat. "My father ordered it."

The words landed between them like a stone dropped into still water.

Joff stopped moving. He stood there, one hand resting on the stone wall, the torchlight painting half his face in gold and half in shadow. For a long moment, he didn't say anything.

Then he let out a slow breath.

"I know."

Jace felt the floor drop out from under him. "What?"

Joff pushed off the wall and walked past him, deeper into the corridor. He stopped near a torch and leaned against the stone, his arms crossed. "I've known since I arrived. Lord Lysander has eyes everywhere. He heard whispers before we even left the Frostlands border."

"And you didn't think to tell me?"

"Why would I?" Joff's voice was calm. Almost gentle. "We were enemies. You were supposed to be the one holding the knife."

Jace stared at him. The torchlight flickered, casting shadows that danced across Joff's face. There was no mockery in his expression. No games. Just a quiet certainty that made Jace's chest tighten.

"But I trust you won't do it."

The words hit Jace harder than he expected. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He just stood there, in that narrow servants' corridor, with the guttering torches and the cold stone walls, looking at the boy he was supposed to hate.

Joff's lips quirked upward. "You wouldn't have told me if you were going to do it. That's not how assassins operate."

"We're not assassins. We're princes."

"Same thing, different clothes." Joff shrugged. "But I saw you in the garden. Watching the birds. Watching me." His voice dropped. "You're not your father, Jace."

Jace didn't know when he'd started moving. But suddenly he was closer. Close enough to see the faint pulse beating in Joff's throat, to catch the scent of wine and something floral on his skin.

He lifted his hand.

Joff's eyes went wide. A breath caught in his throat.

Their faces were inches apart. Jace could feel the warmth radiating off Joff's skin, could see the way the torchlight caught the silver in his eyes. His hand hovered in the space between them, not quite touching, not quite pulling away.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor.

They sprang apart. Jace stepped back so fast his shoulder hit the opposite wall. Joff straightened, adjusting his collar, staring at the floor like it held the secrets of the universe.

A servant rounded the corner, carrying a tray of empty goblets. She stopped when she saw them, her eyes widening. "Your Highnesses—I didn't mean to intrude—"

"It's fine." Joff's voice was steady. Too steady. "We were just leaving."

He walked past the servant without looking back.

Jace followed. His heart was pounding. His hand was still raised, half-open, as if it remembered where it had been reaching.

Joff paused at the end of the corridor. He didn't turn around.

"We survive together," he said quietly. "Or not at all."

He extended his arm behind him. His forearm, bare where the sleeve had ridden up.

Jace took it.

The clasp was brief. A warrior's grip, palm to palm, forearm to forearm. Sealed.

Joff pulled away and disappeared around the corner.

Jace stood there, alone in the corridor, the torchlight flickering around him. His hand was still warm where Joff's arm had pressed against it.

He didn't know if he'd just made an ally or a target.

But he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that he wouldn't let anything happen to Joff. Not while he drew breath.

The corridor stretched ahead of them, narrow and cold, the torches flickering in their iron brackets. Jace stood with his back against the rough stone, his heart still hammering from the nearness of a moment ago. The servant had vanished around the corner, her footsteps fading into the distant murmur of the hall.

Joff hadn't moved. He leaned against the opposite wall, his hands pressed flat against the stone like he needed something solid to hold onto. The torchlight caught the curve of his jaw, the pale line of his throat.

Quiet settled between them. Not uncomfortable, but weighted. The kind of quiet that held its breath.

"I know."

Jace blinked. "What?"

"I know about the plot." Joff's voice was low, almost a whisper. "I've known since I arrived. Lord Lysander has ears everywhere. He heard whispers before we even crossed the border."

Jace opened his mouth, but no words came. He felt like he'd been punched in the chest. All that time, all that careful worry, and Joff had known from the beginning.

"Then why—"

"Because I trust you." Joff pushed off the wall and took a step closer. "I've watched you, Jace. The way you handled that envoy. The way you came after me in the garden. You're not a killer. And you wouldn't have told me if you were going to do it."

Jace stared at him. The torchlight painted shadows across Joff's face, but there was nothing hidden in his expression. Just a quiet certainty that made Jace's throat tight.

"How can you be so sure?"

Joff's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Because I've spent my whole life learning to tell the difference between people who want to hurt me and people who don't." He paused. "You don't."

The words settled into Jace's chest like a key turning in a lock.

He didn't know when he started moving. One moment he was against the wall, and the next he was closer. Close enough to see the flecks of silver in Joff's eyes, to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Close enough to hear the soft hitch in Joff's breath.

His hand lifted.

Joff's gaze dropped to Jace's fingers, then rose again. His lips parted slightly. The space between them hummed with something electric, something that had been building since the first pastry hit the pillow.

Jace's fingers brushed Joff's jaw.

The touch was featherlight. Joff's skin was warm beneath his fingertips, warmer than the frozen stone around them. Jace saw the way his eyes fluttered half-closed, the way he leaned into the contact like a flower turning toward the sun.

They were inches apart. Jace could feel Joff's breath on his lips.

A scrape of boots on stone.

They tore apart like startled birds. Jace slammed back against the wall. Joff spun away, his hand flying to his collar, adjusting something that didn't need adjusting.

A servant rounded the corner. Young, maybe sixteen, carrying a tray of empty goblets that clinked with every step. She stopped when she saw them, her eyes going wide.

"Your Highnesses—I'm sorry—I didn't mean to interrupt—"

"You didn't." Joff's voice came out too bright. He was staring at the floor, at the stones, anywhere but at Jace. "We were just leaving."

The servant hesitated, then bobbed a quick curtsy and hurried past them, her footsteps echoing down the corridor until they faded into silence.

Jace stared at the wall. He could still feel the warmth of Joff's skin on his fingertips.

Joff cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. Careful. Like he was testing the weight of each word before letting it go.

"We survive together. Or not at all."

Jace looked up. Joff had turned to face him, one hand extended. His forearm was bare where the sleeve had ridden up. An old offer. A warrior's pact.

Jace took a step forward. Then another. He reached out and grasped Joff's forearm, palm to palm, fingers curling around the solid warmth of muscle and bone.

Joff's grip tightened in return.

They stood there for a moment, connected by that single point of contact. Jace could feel Joff's pulse beneath his thumb, steady and strong.

"Together," Jace said.

Joff nodded. A small, sure movement. Then he released Jace's arm and stepped back, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

"Good. Because I'd hate to have to find someone else to steal cake with."

Jace let out a breath that was almost a laugh. The tension in his shoulders eased, just fractionally. "You'd never find anyone else willing to wrestle you for the last slice."

"True. I'm a handful."

"You're a menace."

Joff's smile widened. "I prefer 'creative.'"

They stood in the flickering torchlight, the space between them still humming with everything unsaid. But the pact was sealed. The alliance made.

Joff turned and started walking down the corridor, his footsteps light on the stone. He paused at the corner and glanced back over his shoulder.

"Coming, partner?"

Jace pushed off the wall and followed. The cold stone corridor opened ahead of them, winding toward the main hall and the rest of the castle. Toward the court filled with enemies who wore smiles like masks.

But for the first time since he'd arrived in the Frostlands, Jace didn't feel alone.