Chapter 5: The Arrow's Flight

The hunting party assembled in the courtyard before the sun had fully cleared the eastern wall. Frost clung to every surface—the cobblestones, the saddles, the breath that plumed from horses and men alike into the cold morning air. Servants moved through the crowd with trays of mulled wine and strips of dried meat, offering warmth and provisions to the riders who stamped their feet and adjusted their gloves.

Jace stood beside his gelding, a sturdy chestnut with a white blaze, and ran his hand along the animal's neck. The horse huffed steam into the gray light and shifted its weight, impatient to move. He'd chosen it from the Frostlands stables the night before, after a brief consultation with one of the grooms who'd eyed him suspiciously until Joff appeared and waved the man off with a flick of his wrist.

That memory sat warm in Jace's chest. The way Joff had known what he needed without being asked.

He looked across the courtyard and found Joff already mounted, astride a pale gray stallion that looked like it had been carved from winter mist. Joff wore a dark green hunting coat with silver embroidery at the cuffs, and his hair was pulled back from his face, revealing the sharp line of his jaw. He was laughing at something Lord Lysander said, but his eyes found Jace's across the chaos of men and horses.

The nod was small. Almost imperceptible.

Jace returned it.

The forearm clasp from last night still hummed between them, a current that hadn't faded. Jace could feel the phantom pressure of Joff's grip around his wrist, warm and sure. They had sealed something in that corridor. Something that felt like a promise and a threat and a beginning all at once.

King Roderic rode past on a black destrier, leading the main column. His face was stone, his gaze fixed forward. Behind him came a dozen Frostlands noblemen, then the Sunward party—Jace's father at their head, with Lady Elara flanking him on a wiry bay mare. She caught Jace's eye and gave a single, sharp nod that meant stay sharp.

He intended to.

The hunting horn sounded. The gates swung open.

They rode out into the borderland forest.

The trees closed around them quickly, swallowing the pale morning light. Pines and silver birches rose on either side, their branches heavy with frost that sparkled when the sun managed to pierce the canopy. The trail wound through drifts of dead leaves and patches of hard-packed snow, the horses picking their way carefully over roots and frozen puddles.

Jace let the main group pull ahead. He adjusted his reins, slowed his gelding to a walk, and pretended to examine a tree trunk where the bark had been stripped by some animal. He heard hoofbeats behind him and didn't turn.

Joff drew up beside him, his gray stallion stepping daintily over a fallen branch. "See anything interesting?"

"Just checking for signs." Jace kept his voice low, though there was no one close enough to hear. "The deer have been through here. Maybe yesterday."

"How diplomatic of you." Joff's tone was light, but his eyes were scanning the treeline. "We should scout that ravine to the east. I saw it on the map this morning."

Jace caught the meaning beneath the words. They needed to talk. Away from ears and eyes.

"Lead the way."

Joff turned his horse off the main trail, following a narrow path that dipped between two moss-covered boulders. Jace followed, his hand resting on the pommel of his saddle, close to the knife at his belt. The forest grew denser here. The sounds of the hunting party faded—the distant calls, the occasional horn blast—until there was only the crunch of hooves on frost and the whisper of wind through bare branches.

The ravine opened before them unexpectedly. A steep cut in the earth, maybe thirty feet deep, with a stream running along its bottom. The walls were lined with jagged rocks and twisted roots. At the far end, the ground rose again into a ridge of pines.

Joff pulled up at the edge and dismounted. He tied his horse to a low branch and walked to the rim, peering down into the shadowed gully.

Jace stayed in the saddle, letting his gaze sweep the tree line. "What did you want to talk about?"

"The hunting party is half a mile north by now." Joff didn't turn around. "I wanted to make sure we had space. In case we needed to discuss last night."

"We already discussed it."

"Then we're clear?"

Jace swung down from his horse, landing softly on the frozen ground. He walked to stand beside Joff, close enough to feel the cold radiating off his coat. "We're clear."

Joff looked at him then. His eyes were the color of ice in shadow, but there was warmth in them. "Good."

They stood there for a moment, the ravine stretching before them. Jace watched the way Joff's breath fogged in the cold air, the way his fingers tapped against his thigh in a restless rhythm.

Then Joff's head snapped up.

"There." He pointed across the ravine, toward the ridge of pines on the far side. "A stag."

Jace followed his gaze. For a moment, he saw nothing. Then movement—the flick of an antler, the shape of a large body shifting between the trees. A buck, impressive in size, its coat dark against the pale bark. It hadn't seen them yet.

Joff was already moving. He sprinted back to his horse, swung into the saddle with practiced ease, and urged the gray stallion forward along the edge of the ravine. "There's a crossing point a hundred yards south. We can cut it off on the other side."

Jace mounted and followed, his heart pounding. The stag had moved deeper into the trees, but Joff was tracking it with the focus of a predator. They rode hard along the ravine's rim, the wind biting at Jace's cheeks, the horse's hooves throwing up clods of frozen earth.

They found the crossing—a narrow ledge where the walls sloped down to the stream bed. Joff didn't slow. His stallion picked its way down the rocky incline with sure-footed grace, splashing through the shallow water and scrambling up the opposite bank.

Jace followed, his gelding less agile but willing. They emerged on the far side among the pines, the ravine behind them. The stag was ahead, maybe forty yards, its white tail flashing as it bounded through the undergrowth.

Joff pressed forward, weaving between the trees. Jace kept pace, his eyes moving constantly—checking the stag's path, the gaps between trunks, the shadows that gathered in the thicker stands of pine. The forest had grown quieter. The birds had stopped singing.

Something prickled at the back of Jace's neck.

He scanned the treeline again. Nothing moved. Just the stag, and the two of them, and the breath of the forest held tight in its lungs.

Joff had pulled ahead, his gray stallion threading through a narrow gap between two fallen logs. He was focused on the stag, his body low over the horse's neck, one hand raised to shield his eyes from the low sun.

Jace opened his mouth to call out.

The arrow whistled.

He heard it before he saw it—a thin, sharp sound cutting through the air from somewhere to his left. His body moved before his mind caught up. He kicked his gelding sideways, hard, and launched himself forward.

The arrow struck his left shoulder with a force that drove the breath from his lungs. A burst of pain, white-hot and stunning, radiated down his arm and across his chest. He felt the shaft punch through leather and wool and skin, felt the barbed head tear muscle as it lodged deep.

He was falling.

The ground rushed up to meet him. He hit hard, the impact jarring through his spine, and the world swam in a haze of pain and frost and the sound of Joff's voice shouting somewhere far away.# Chapter 5: The Arrow's Flight

The hunting party assembled in the courtyard before the sun had fully cleared the eastern wall. Frost clung to every surface—the cobblestones, the saddles, the breath that plumed from horses and men alike into the cold morning air. Servants moved through the crowd with trays of mulled wine and strips of dried meat, offering warmth and provisions to the riders who stamped their feet and adjusted their gloves.

Jace stood beside his gelding, a sturdy chestnut with a white blaze, and ran his hand along the animal's neck. The horse huffed steam into the gray light and shifted its weight, impatient to move. He'd chosen it from the Frostlands stables the night before, after a brief consultation with one of the grooms who'd eyed him suspiciously until Joff appeared and waved the man off with a flick of his wrist.

That memory sat warm in Jace's chest. The way Joff had known what he needed without being asked.

He looked across the courtyard and found Joff already mounted, astride a pale gray stallion that looked like it had been carved from winter mist. Joff wore a dark green hunting coat with silver embroidery at the cuffs, and his hair was pulled back from his face, revealing the sharp line of his jaw. He was laughing at something Lord Lysander said, but his eyes found Jace's across the chaos of men and horses.

The nod was small. Almost imperceptible.

Jace returned it.

The forearm clasp from last night still hummed between them, a current that hadn't faded. Jace could feel the phantom pressure of Joff's grip around his wrist, warm and sure. They had sealed something in that corridor. Something that felt like a promise and a threat and a beginning all at once.

King Roderic rode past on a black destrier, leading the main column. His face was stone, his gaze fixed forward. Behind him came a dozen Frostlands noblemen, then the Sunward party—Jace's father at their head, with Lady Elara flanking him on a wiry bay mare. She caught Jace's eye and gave a single, sharp nod that meant stay sharp.

He intended to.

The hunting horn sounded. The gates swung open.

They rode out into the borderland forest.

The trees closed around them quickly, swallowing the pale morning light. Pines and silver birches rose on either side, their branches heavy with frost that sparkled when the sun managed to pierce the canopy. The trail wound through drifts of dead leaves and patches of hard-packed snow, the horses picking their way carefully over roots and frozen puddles.

Jace let the main group pull ahead. He adjusted his reins, slowed his gelding to a walk, and pretended to examine a tree trunk where the bark had been stripped by some animal. He heard hoofbeats behind him and didn't turn.

Joff drew up beside him, his gray stallion stepping daintily over a fallen branch. "See anything interesting?"

"Just checking for signs." Jace kept his voice low, though there was no one close enough to hear. "The deer have been through here. Maybe yesterday."

"How diplomatic of you." Joff's tone was light, but his eyes were scanning the treeline. "We should scout that ravine to the east. I saw it on the map this morning."

Jace caught the meaning beneath the words. They needed to talk. Away from ears and eyes.

"Lead the way."

Joff turned his horse off the main trail, following a narrow path that dipped between two moss-covered boulders. Jace followed, his hand resting on the pommel of his saddle, close to the knife at his belt. The forest grew denser here. The sounds of the hunting party faded—the distant calls, the occasional horn blast—until there was only the crunch of hooves on frost and the whisper of wind through bare branches.

The ravine opened before them unexpectedly. A steep cut in the earth, maybe thirty feet deep, with a stream running along its bottom. The walls were lined with jagged rocks and twisted roots. At the far end, the ground rose again into a ridge of pines.

Joff pulled up at the edge and dismounted. He tied his horse to a low branch and walked to the rim, peering down into the shadowed gully.

Jace stayed in the saddle, letting his gaze sweep the tree line. "What did you want to talk about?"

"The hunting party is half a mile north by now." Joff didn't turn around. "I wanted to make sure we had space. In case we needed to discuss last night."

"We already discussed it."

"Then we're clear?"

Jace swung down from his horse, landing softly on the frozen ground. He walked to stand beside Joff, close enough to feel the cold radiating off his coat. "We're clear."

Joff looked at him then. His eyes were the color of ice in shadow, but there was warmth in them. "Good."

They stood there for a moment, the ravine stretching before them. Jace watched the way Joff's breath fogged in the cold air, the way his fingers tapped against his thigh in a restless rhythm.

Then Joff's head snapped up.

"There." He pointed across the ravine, toward the ridge of pines on the far side. "A stag."

Jace followed his gaze. For a moment, he saw nothing. Then movement—the flick of an antler, the shape of a large body shifting between the trees. A buck, impressive in size, its coat dark against the pale bark. It hadn't seen them yet.

Joff was already moving. He sprinted back to his horse, swung into the saddle with practiced ease, and urged the gray stallion forward along the edge of the ravine. "There's a crossing point a hundred yards south. We can cut it off on the other side."

Jace mounted and followed, his heart pounding. The stag had moved deeper into the trees, but Joff was tracking it with the focus of a predator. They rode hard along the ravine's rim, the wind biting at Jace's cheeks, the horse's hooves throwing up clods of frozen earth.

They found the crossing—a narrow ledge where the walls sloped down to the stream bed. Joff didn't slow. His stallion picked its way down the rocky incline with sure-footed grace, splashing through the shallow water and scrambling up the opposite bank.

Jace followed, his gelding less agile but willing. They emerged on the far side among the pines, the ravine behind them. The stag was ahead, maybe forty yards, its white tail flashing as it bounded through the undergrowth.

Joff pressed forward, weaving between the trees. Jace kept pace, his eyes moving constantly—checking the stag's path, the gaps between trunks, the shadows that gathered in the thicker stands of pine. The forest had grown quieter. The birds had stopped singing.

Something prickled at the back of Jace's neck.

He scanned the treeline again. Nothing moved. Just the stag, and the two of them, and the breath of the forest held tight in its lungs.

Joff had pulled ahead, his gray stallion threading through a narrow gap between two fallen logs. He was focused on the stag, his body low over the horse's neck, one hand raised to shield his eyes from the low sun.

Jace opened his mouth to call out.

The arrow whistled.

He heard it before he saw it—a thin, sharp sound cutting through the air from somewhere to his left. His body moved before his mind caught up. He kicked his gelding sideways, hard, and launched himself forward.

The arrow struck his left shoulder with a force that drove the breath from his lungs. A burst of pain, white-hot and stunning, radiated down his arm and across his chest. He felt the shaft punch through leather and wool and skin, felt the barbed head tear muscle as it lodged deep.

He was falling.

The ground rushed up to meet him. He hit hard, the impact jarring through his spine, and the world swam in a haze of pain and frost and the sound of Joff's voice shouting somewhere far away.

The ground hit him like a wall. Jace's vision went white for a moment, the pain in his shoulder blooming into something that swallowed everything else. He tasted dirt and frost and copper. His fingers scraped against frozen earth, trying to find purchase, trying to push himself up.

A hand grabbed the collar of his coat and hauled him sideways.

Joff's voice cut through the haze—sharp, urgent, not the teasing lilt Jace had grown used to. "Move. Move, you idiot, get behind the log."

Jace's legs wouldn't cooperate. His left arm hung useless, the arrow jutting from his shoulder like a grotesque flag. But Joff had him, one hand fisted in his collar, the other braced under his arm, dragging him across the frozen ground. The rough bark of a fallen pine scraped against Jace's ribs as Joff shoved him behind it, wedging them both into the narrow space between the trunk and the frost-hardened earth.

Joff's head whipped around, scanning the treeline. His voice exploded into the cold air. "GUARDS! TO ME! NOW!"

The shout echoed through the pines, raw and desperate. Jace heard answering calls from somewhere distant—the main party, maybe, or the rear guard. But they were too far. The archer could have been anywhere.

Joff pressed himself flat against the log, one hand coming up to shield Jace's head. His eyes were fixed on the trees, searching for movement, for the glint of another arrow.

Nothing moved.

The forest held its breath.

Seconds crawled past. Jace's shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat, each pulse sending a fresh wave of pain through his chest. He could feel the arrowhead grinding against bone with every shallow breath.

The archer must have slipped away. No more arrows came. No rustle of undergrowth. Just the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant shouts growing closer.

Joff let out a shaky exhale. Then he turned to Jace, and the mask of command cracked.

His hands were shaking as they found the wound. He ripped his scarf from his neck—dark green wool, soft from wear—and pressed it hard against the entry point. The fabric turned dark almost immediately.

Jace hissed through his teeth, his body trying to arch away from the pressure. His good hand shot out and caught Joff's wrist, squeezing hard enough to hurt.

Joff didn't pull away. He leaned closer, his face inches from Jace's, and forced himself to meet Jace's eyes. "Stay with me. Look at me. Don't look at it."

Jace's vision was starting to tunnel. The edges of the world were going gray. But Joff's face was still sharp, still clear—the pale skin, the silver eyes wide with something that looked almost like fear.

"Didn't even see him," Jace managed. His voice came out thin. "Came from the left."

"I know." Joff's jaw was tight. The pressure on the wound didn't let up. "I know. Just keep talking. Tell me something stupid."

The shouts were closer now. Hoofbeats pounding through the undergrowth.

Jace's grip on Joff's wrist was slipping. "The cake was better than I told you."

Joff let out a laugh that was half a sob. "You hate my cake."

"Your cake is terrible. Too much honey."

"Liar. You ate half of it."

The first riders burst through the trees. A Frostlands guardsman, his face flushed with cold and exertion, reined in so hard his horse reared. Behind him came three more, their bows already drawn, scanning the treeline for threats.

Joff didn't look away from Jace. "He's hit. Arrow wound, left shoulder, through and through as far as I can tell. There's a hunting lodge a quarter mile east—I saw it on the way in. Get him there. Now."

The guards dismounted in a flurry of movement. One of them—a broad-shouldered man with a graying beard—knelt beside Jace and assessed the wound with practiced eyes. "We need to cut the shaft before we move him. It'll shift less."

Joff nodded. "Do it."

The guard produced a knife, sharp and thin-bladed. Jace watched him position it near the arrow shaft, just above where it entered his shoulder. The man's hands were steady.

"Bite down on something, Your Highness."

Joff shoved his own leather glove between Jace's teeth. Leather and sweat and the faint smell of horse. Jace bit down.

The blade sawed through the shaft with a sound like snapping bone. The pain was a white-hot line that ran from his shoulder to his skull and back again. Jace's vision went black for a moment, and when it came back, Joff was lifting him, one arm around his back, the other under his knees.

"Easy. I've got you."

Jace's head lolled against Joff's shoulder. The guards had formed a perimeter around them, horses stamping and snorting, but Joff was carrying him toward one of the mounts with a strength that seemed to come from somewhere beyond his lean frame.

They got Jace slung across the saddle somehow. Joff mounted behind him, one arm wrapped around Jace's waist, holding him upright against his chest. The horse moved at a careful walk, Joff's voice low at Jace's ear, murmuring directions to the guards, ordering someone to find the physician and bring him to the lodge.

The ride was a blur. Trees sliding past. Patches of sky between branches. The steady thud of hooves on frozen ground. And the warmth of Joff's arm around him, solid and unyielding.

The hunting lodge emerged through the trees—a low stone building with a slate roof and smoke curling from its chimney. The door was kicked open before the horse had fully stopped. Hands lifted Jace down, carried him inside, laid him on a table near the fire.

The physician was already there, a small man with quick hands and a worried expression. He cut away Jace's coat, his shirt, baring the wound to the firelight. The arrowhead was still lodged deep, the flesh around it swollen and angry.

"This will hurt," the physician said.

Jace barely heard him. His eyes found Joff, who stood at the edge of the table, his face pale, his torn scarf still clutched in one hand.

Joff moved closer. He reached out and took Jace's hand—the right one, the good one—and held it between both of his. His fingers were cold. They were also steady.

"Don't watch," Joff said. "Watch me."

The physician's knife cut into Jace's shoulder. The pain was everything, filling every corner of his awareness, drowning out the crackle of the fire and the murmur of voices and the distant howl of the wind.

But Joff's hand was there. Joff's grip, unbroken.

Jace held onto it like a lifeline.

The physician finished his work with a few final passes of the needle, tied off the thread, and pressed a clean cloth against the wound. He said something about keeping it dry, about changing the dressing twice a day, about watching for fever. Jace heard the words but they slid past him like water over stone.

Joff stood at the foot of the table, his arms crossed tight across his chest. His scarf was still balled in his fist, stained dark. He hadn't let go of Jace's hand through the stitching, but now that it was over, he'd pulled back. Put distance between them.

The physician gathered his tools, gave a few more instructions to the guard at the door, and left. The door clicked shut behind him.

The fire crackled. The lodge was small—one room with a low ceiling, a bed in the corner, a hearth that cast flickering shadows across the stone walls. The table where Jace lay was rough-hewn pine, worn smooth by years of use. He could smell woodsmoke and herbs and the iron tang of his own blood.

Joff moved to the hearth. He stood with his back to Jace, one hand braced against the stone mantel, his head bowed.

"I thought you were dead."

His voice was quiet. Barely audible over the fire.

Jace tried to push himself up on his good elbow. Pain lanced through his shoulder, and he settled for lifting his head instead. "I'm fine."

"You took an arrow for me." Joff turned. His face was hard to read in the firelight—half in shadow, half in gold. "That was meant for me. You knew it. And you threw yourself in front of it."

Jace didn't have an answer for that. It was true. He'd seen the arrow's path and his body had moved before his mind had caught up. There hadn't been a decision. There hadn't been a choice.

Joff crossed the room in three long strides. He stopped at the edge of the table, close enough that Jace could see the tension in his jaw, the slight tremor in his hands. He reached out and adjusted the bandage on Jace's shoulder, his fingers brushing against the edge of the cloth. The touch was light. Lingering.

"I was afraid," Joff said. His voice cracked on the last word. "When you fell. When I saw the blood. I was afraid you were going to die, and I—"

He stopped. Swallowed.

Jace reached up with his good hand and caught Joff's fingers where they rested on the bandage. "I would do it again."

Joff's eyes snapped to his.

"The arrow. I'd take it again." Jace's voice was rough, scraped raw from screaming. But he meant every word. "When we started this, I hated you. I hated everything about you. Your stupid jokes, your pastries, the way you smiled like you knew something I didn't."

Joff let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "That's a lot of reasons to hate someone."

"I know." Jace's thumb traced a slow arc across Joff's knuckles. "But somewhere along the way, it stopped being hate. I don't know when. Maybe in the kitchen. Maybe in the garden. Maybe when you handed me half that cake and I realized I'd rather share it with you than eat the whole thing myself."

Joff's expression shifted. The walls he'd built, the mask he wore so well—they cracked, just slightly. "I hated you too."

"I know."

"I planned every prank. I wanted to make you miserable enough to call off the betrothal yourself. I wanted you to break first."

"And now?"

Joff's free hand came up. He cupped Jace's jaw, his palm warm against the cold skin. "Now I want you to stay."

The words hung between them, heavy and fragile.

Joff leaned closer, his forehead resting against Jace's. "I don't know when it changed for me either. But it did. It changed, and now I look at you and I can't remember what it felt like to hate you. All I remember is wanting you to look at me. Really look at me."

Jace's hand slid up, fingers threading into Joff's hair. The silver strands were soft, cool against his skin. "I'm looking."

"We can't let them win." Joff's voice was barely a whisper. "Your father. Mine. They want us to be pieces on their board. They want us to hate each other, or fear each other, or kill each other. We can't let them."

"We won't." Jace pulled back just enough to meet Joff's eyes. "We protect the truce together. We defy the order together. Whatever comes, we face it side by side."

Joff's smile was small and fragile and real. "Together."

They stayed like that for a moment, forehead to forehead, breath mingling in the space between them. The fire crackled. The wind picked up outside, rattling the shutters. The world kept moving, but in that lodge, in that moment, time felt suspended.

Joff's hand slid from Jace's jaw to the back of his neck. His eyes dropped to Jace's lips.

Then he closed the distance.

The kiss was slow. Careful. Joff's lips were soft and cold, and he tasted like winter air and something sweet. Jace's hand tightened in his hair, pulling him closer, and Joff made a small sound against his mouth that sent warmth spiraling through Jace's chest.

Jace cupped Joff's jaw, his thumb brushing across the sharp line of his cheekbone. The kiss deepened, unhurried, each second pressing a promise deeper into their skin. When they finally broke apart, both of them breathing hard, Joff's eyes were bright.

He pressed his forehead to Jace's again. "That was..."

"Yeah." Jace's voice was hoarse. "It was."

Joff laughed—a real laugh, warm and surprised, like he hadn't expected to find joy in the middle of all this chaos. "We're going to have to tell them. Eventually."

"Eventually." Jace pulled him close, ignoring the pull in his shoulder. "But not tonight."

Joff settled against him, careful of the wound, his head resting in the curve of Jace's neck. The fire crackled. The wind howled. And for the first time since he'd arrived in the Frostlands, Jace felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

They had a long road ahead. Assassins. Fathers. A court full of enemies wearing friendly faces. But they would face it together, and that made all the difference.

Jace pressed a kiss to the top of Joff's head and let his eyes drift closed.