Chapter 7: The Wedding

Three weeks of preparation had transformed the great hall into something Jace barely recognized.

The space had always felt imposing to him—cold stone, high vaulted ceilings, the weight of centuries pressing down from the rafters. He'd spent countless hours here as a child, sitting through tedious ceremonies and trying not to fidget while his father lectured him afterward about the importance of stillness.

But today felt different.

Sunburst banners hung alongside frost-patterned tapestries, the gold and silver threads catching the light from hundreds of candles that servants had been lighting since dawn. The holders were arranged in alternating pairs—gold on the left, silver on the right—running down the aisles like a path of fire and ice. The effect was almost dizzying, the flames flickering and casting dancing shadows across the faces of the assembled courtiers.

Jace stood at the entrance, waiting for his cue. His shoulder had healed well enough, though he still felt a dull ache when he moved too quickly. The physicians had assured him the scar would fade with time. He wasn't sure he wanted it to.

His formal tunic felt heavier than usual. The Sunward gold was there, bright and familiar, but the silver thread woven through the collar and cuffs marked him as something new. Something bound. The ceremonial sword at his hip was purely ornamental—his father had insisted—but Jace kept his hand resting on the hilt anyway. It grounded him.

Lady Elara appeared at his side, dressed in formal scouting leathers that had been polished to a dangerous shine. She looked him up and down with an expression he couldn't quite read.

"You'll do," she said.

"High praise."

"I mean it." She adjusted one of the silver threads on his collar, her fingers quick and efficient. "You look like a prince who knows what he wants."

Jace felt a smile tug at his mouth. "And what's that?"

Her eyes met his. "Him."

She didn't say anything else. She didn't need to. She stepped back into her position among the assembled witnesses, and Jace turned his attention to the hall.

The officiant stood at the far end, a neutral figure from a border temple, dressed in simple gray robes. He was older than Jace had expected—white-haired, soft-spoken, with the kind of calm patience that came from decades of watching families make promises they couldn't keep. But there was something steadying about his presence. Something that said this wasn't about politics.

The music started. A slow, rising melody from the gallery above, played on instruments Jace couldn't name.

He began to walk.

The aisle stretched longer than he remembered. Every step echoed off the stone walls, and he felt the weight of every pair of eyes on him. Courtiers from both kingdoms lined the pews—Frostlands nobles in their pale silks, Sunward lords in their rich velvets—watching him pass. He caught glimpses of familiar faces: Lord Elric, stiff and formal; Lady Margot, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

Jace kept his gaze forward.

The officiant waited at the end, patient and still. But Jace wasn't looking at him.

He was watching the opposite door.

It opened just as he reached the dais. The music shifted, swelling into something brighter. And Joff stepped through.

Jace's breath caught.

The Frostland robes Joff wore were a deep winter blue, almost black in the low light, but the golden sun medallions embroidered along the edges caught every candle flame and threw it back. They traced down his sleeves, across his chest, around his collar—a map of warmth stitched into cold fabric. His silver hair had been swept back, held in place by a simple circlet of woven gold and wire.

He looked like something out of a story. Like spring breaking through winter. Like a challenge wrapped in silk.

Joff's eyes found his across the hall. And there it was—that small smirk, the one Jace had come to recognize as armor and honesty all at once. The curve of his lips said I know you're staring. The brightness in his eyes said I'm glad you are.

Jace felt his own mouth twitch in response.

Joff began walking. His stride was unhurried, almost lazy, like he had all the time in the world and knew exactly how to use it. He nodded to a few Frostland nobles as he passed, offered a wink to someone in the third row—probably Lord Lysander—and generally behaved as though he were strolling through a garden rather than toward his own wedding.

But Jace noticed the way his hands stayed clasped in front of him. The way his fingers moved, just slightly, counting off a rhythm only he could hear.

Nervous. Good. Jace wasn't the only one.

Joff reached the dais and took his place across from Jace. Close enough that Jace could see the individual threads in his collar, the tiny golden suns that caught the candlelight like scattered stars.

"Cutting it close," Jace murmured.

"Fashionably late." Joff's voice was low, meant only for him. "I had to find the right medallions. The first batch clashed with my complexion."

"The first batch."

"I have several. A prince prepares."

Jace shook his head, but he couldn't stop the smile that broke through. "You're impossible."

"And yet here you are."

The officiant cleared his throat. The hall fell silent.

Jace turned to face him, and the moment settled into something heavier. Real. The officiant's voice carried through the hall, warm and steady, as he addressed the assembly. "We gather today to witness the union of two houses, two kingdoms, and two souls who have chosen each other against all odds."

A ripple moved through the crowd. Someone coughed. A child whispered, too loud, and was shushed.

The officiant's gaze settled on Jace. "Prince Jace of the Sunward Kingdom. Do you come here freely, of your own will, to speak your vows before these witnesses?"

Jace forced himself to breathe. "I do."

"Then speak them."

The words had been drilled into him since childhood. Traditional Sunward vows, unchanged for generations, pledging protection and loyalty until death. He'd memorized them without thinking, the way he'd memorized sword forms and battle formations. Empty words for a ceremony he'd never wanted.

But standing here, with Joff's eyes on him and the candlelight warm on his face, they didn't feel empty.

"I, Jace of House Sunvale," he said, his voice carrying through the hall, "do pledge myself to you, Joff of House Frostmark, as your husband and protector. I will stand between you and any blade that seeks your heart. I will shield you from cold and from fire, from shadow and from storm. I will honor you, in peace and in conflict, in plenty and in want, until the last of my breath leaves my body."

The words settled into the silence like stones dropped into still water. Jace held Joff's gaze, watching the way his expression shifted—the smirk softening into something real, something almost vulnerable.

He'd never said those vows thinking they'd mean anything. But they did now. Every syllable.

The officiant nodded, satisfied, and turned to Joff. "Prince Joff of the Frostlands. Do you come here freely, of your own will, to speak your vows before these witnesses?"

Joff's chin lifted. "Freely. Willingly. Wholeheartedly." His voice was steady, but Jace caught the slight tremor beneath it. "I do."

"Then speak them."

Joff took a breath. And Jace felt the hall hold its breath with him, waiting to see what this unpredictable prince would say.

Joff took a breath. And Jace felt the hall hold its breath with him, waiting to see what this unpredictable prince would say.

"I, Joff of House Frostmark," he began, his voice carrying that familiar lilt, "do pledge myself to you, Jace of House Sunvale, as your husband and your equal." He paused, and Jace watched his throat move as he swallowed. "I will endure the coldest winters beside you. I will share my fire, my shelter, and my last ration of bread when the snows grow deep. I will stand with you against the storms that rage outside our walls and the ones that brew within them."

The Frostland vow. Traditional, ancient, weighted with centuries of frozen history. Jace had heard it recited once before, during a diplomatic ceremony years ago, but it had sounded hollow then. Coming from Joff's mouth, each word felt like a promise carved into stone.

Joff's eyes stayed locked on his. And then his lips curved into that familiar smirk, the one that meant he was about to do something reckless.

"And I promise," Joff added, his voice dropping into something warmer, "to never leave a pastry uneaten between us."

A beat of silence. Then laughter rippled through the hall—surprised, delighted, spreading from the Frostland nobles to the Sunward courtiers. Someone near the back let out a genuine guffaw. Even the officiant's stern expression cracked into something resembling amusement.

Jace felt his own face break into a grin he couldn't have stopped if he'd tried. Leave it to Joff to turn a solemn vow into a joke about their first meeting. About the tart he'd smeared on Jace's pillow, about the cake duel, about every ridiculous moment that had somehow led them here.

"I mean it," Joff said, quieter now, meant only for Jace. "Every crumb."

Jace's chest tightened. He wanted to say something clever, something that matched Joff's wit, but all he could manage was a nod that he hoped conveyed everything he couldn't put into words.

The officiant cleared his throat, recovering his composure. "The rings, please."

Lord Lysander stepped forward, a small velvet cushion in his hands. Two rings sat on it, catching the candlelight—one white gold with a sunstone that glowed amber, the other dark iron etched with frost patterns that seemed to shift as the light moved across them.

Jace reached for the white gold first. It felt warm in his palm, heavier than it looked. He took Joff's left hand, turning it over, and for a moment he just looked at the pale skin, the slender fingers, the way Joff's hand trembled almost imperceptibly.

He slid the ring onto Joff's finger. It fit perfectly.

"With this ring," Jace said, the traditional words coming easily now, "I bind my warmth to your cold, my strength to your cunning, my heart to your keeping."

Joff's breath caught. Just a little. Just enough for Jace to notice.

Then Joff took the dark iron ring from the cushion. He reached for Jace's left hand, his fingers cold against Jace's skin, and slid the ring into place. The frost-etching seemed to pulse once, settling against his finger like it had always belonged there.

"With this ring," Joff said, his voice softer now, stripped of the theatrical edge, "I bind my winters to your summers, my cunning to your strength, my heart to your keeping."

Jace looked down at the ring. Dark iron against his sun-browned skin. It should have looked wrong. It looked right.

The officiant raised his hands, his voice swelling to fill the hall. "By the authority vested in me by the border temple, by the consent of both kingdoms, and by the vows spoken here today, I declare you wed. Bound in law. Bound in spirit. Bound in the sight of all who witness."

He paused, letting the silence stretch.

"You may kiss."

Jace turned to Joff. The hall faded—the candles, the banners, the hundreds of watching eyes. There was only Joff, close enough to touch, his silver hair catching the light, his eyes bright with something that looked almost like wonder.

They moved at the same time.

The kiss was firm. Certain. Jace's hand found Joff's waist, pulling him closer, and Joff's fingers curled into the fabric of his collar. It wasn't a gentle kiss, not the kind of polite peck that ceremony demanded. It was the kind of kiss that said I'm here. I chose this. I choose you.

Someone in the crowd let out a small cheer. Then another. Then polite applause swelled into something warmer, more genuine. Jace could hear Lady Elara's sharp whistle cutting through the noise, could hear Lord Lysander's dry chuckle somewhere to his left.

He broke the kiss slowly, reluctantly, his forehead resting against Joff's for just a moment longer.

"Not bad," Joff murmured, his breath warm against Jace's lips.

"Shut up."

Joff laughed, bright and unguarded, and Jace felt that laugh settle into his chest like a second heartbeat.

The feast was chaos.

Tables had been arranged in long rows down the great hall, draped in alternating gold and silver cloth. Platters of food covered every surface—roasted meats, glazed vegetables, breads shaped like suns and snowflakes, towers of fruit glistening with syrup. Servants wove between the guests, refilling cups and clearing plates with practiced efficiency.

Jace sat at the head table, Joff beside him, their shoulders brushing every time either of them moved. The ring on his finger felt strange and wonderful, a constant reminder of what had just happened.

"You're staring," Joff said, not looking at him.

"I'm admiring."

"Same thing." Joff reached for a goblet of wine, took a sip, and set it down. "Admiring is just staring with a better excuse."

Jace opened his mouth to retort, but Joff was already moving.

The cake sat at the center of the head table—a towering creation of three tiers, frosted in white and gold, with sugar flowers cascading down the sides. Joff reached out, plucked the top tier piece from its pedestal, and lifted it triumphantly.

A few nobles gasped. Someone laughed.

"What?" Joff said, looking around with exaggerated innocence. "It's my wedding. I get first pick."

He broke the piece in half. Frosting smeared across his fingers. He held out one half to Jace, his eyes dancing.

Jace took it. Their fingers brushed. The crumbs scattered across the tablecloth.

"To the first of many," Joff said.

Jace bit into the cake. It was absurdly sweet, layers of honey and cream and something floral he couldn't name. He didn't care. He chewed, swallowed, and watched Joff do the same, a smear of frosting on his lower lip.

"You have something," Jace said.

Joff wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, missing the spot entirely. "Better?"

"No."

Joff leaned in, close enough that Jace could smell the sugar on his breath. "Then show me."

Jace reached out and wiped the frosting away with his thumb. Joff's eyes followed the movement, then lifted to meet his. The hall hummed with conversation and laughter around them, but for a moment, it was just the two of them.

Joff grinned. "You're going to be trouble."

"You have no idea."

The feast carried on around them, voices rising and falling in waves of laughter and conversation. Jace lost track of how many toasts were made, how many hands clapped his shoulder, how many well-wishers pressed close to offer congratulations. He smiled and nodded and said the right things, but most of his attention stayed fixed on the person beside him.

Joff worked the room like he'd been born for it. He charmed the Frostland elders with gossip about their home estates, traded quips with the Sunward lords, and somehow managed to eat three more slices of cake while doing it all. Every time he caught Jace's eye, that smirk reappeared, like they were sharing a secret no one else was in on.

Maybe they were.

One year later

The council chamber had changed.

Not the room itself—the same high windows, the same long oak table, the same faded maps on the walls. But the atmosphere felt different. Lighter. The tension that had once clung to every surface like frost had thawed into something almost comfortable.

Jace sat on the left throne, the twin seat that had been added after the wedding. It was slightly smaller than the main throne, designed to sit alongside rather than beneath. He'd gotten used to the way it felt now—the worn armrests, the slight tilt toward the center where he could lean close to Joff if needed.

Today, he was signing trade decrees. A stack of them, each one requiring his seal and his signature, detailing grain quotas and wool prices and tariffs that made his eyes glaze over. The quill scratched across the parchment, steady and automatic.

Beside him, Joff was not signing anything.

He had a piece of parchment in front of him, but instead of official correspondence, it was covered in quick, confident lines. His quill moved in short bursts, pausing every few seconds as he studied something across the room.

Jace glanced over. "Are you working?"

"Absolutely." Joff didn't look up. "I'm documenting history."

"What history?"

"The ongoing saga of Lord Martyn's nose." Joff tilted the parchment so Jace could see. A crude but recognizable sketch of the Sunward nobleman dominated the page, his long face exaggerated, his nose stretched into a ridiculous bulbous shape. Tiny lines indicated he was sniffling, which he did constantly during council meetings.

Jace bit the inside of his cheek. "He'll see that."

"He never looks at my papers. He thinks I'm taking notes." Joff added a flourish—a small crown tilting crookedly on the nobleman's head. "Besides, it's art. I'm preserving his legacy."

"You're going to get us in trouble."

"We're kings now. We don't get in trouble. We cause it."

Jace shook his head, but the smile crept through anyway. He returned to the decrees, signing the last one and setting down his quill just as a knock sounded at the chamber door.

A servant entered, bowing low. "Your Majesties. A dispute has arisen in the eastern granaries. The grain shipments from the Frostlands and Sunward arrived at the same time, and neither party will allow the other to unload first."

Jace felt the familiar tension creep into his shoulders. Grain disputes were tedious. They involved pride, precedence, and a lot of shouting about ancient customs that nobody actually remembered.

But Joff sat up straighter, a glint in his eye. "Which granary?"

"The Eastmark depot, Your Majesty."

Joff's quill tapped against the parchment. "The one with the narrow access road and the two loading bays?"

"Yes, Majesty."

"Right." Joff leaned back, his smile widening. "Do you remember that time I replaced all your shaving soap with honey?"

Jace blinked. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Bear with me." Joff turned to the servant. "Tell them to unload the Frostlands grain first—but only into the left bay. Leave the right bay empty. Then send a message to the Sunward handlers saying the Frostlands have finished but their cart is blocking the road, and they'll need to unload from the far side."

The servant looked confused. "Wouldn't that cause more delay?"

"It'll cause chaos for about ten minutes. Then the Sunward handlers will realize they can just pull their cart around the back way and unload into the right bay from the opposite direction. No blocking, no waiting, no precedence arguments." Joff shrugged. "They just need to think they're solving a problem instead of following an order."

Jace stared at him. Then the memory clicked into place—the honey in his shaving soap, the sticky mess he'd spent an hour cleaning up. He'd retaliated by hiding Joff's boots, and Joff had responded by rearranging the furniture in their shared suite. The entire prank war had been a series of creative solutions to problems neither of them had been willing to address directly.

"You want to solve a grain dispute using prank logic," Jace said.

"I want to solve a grain dispute using practical experience." Joff's eyes sparkled. "Is it working?"

Jace looked at the servant, who was waiting patiently. "Do it. His Majesty's way."

The servant bowed and left. Jace turned back to Joff, who was already adding a new sketch to his parchment—two grain carts facing off like duelists, with a tiny crown hovering above them.

"You're ridiculous," Jace said.

"I'm efficient. There's a difference."

Later that evening, the castle had settled into its quiet rhythm. The servants had retired to their quarters. The guards patrolled in pairs, their footsteps echoing through the stone corridors. The candles in the sconces had burned low, casting long shadows across the walls.

Jace entered their private chambers first, loosening the collar of his tunic. The day had been long—council meetings, audiences, another round of negotiations with the Frostlands envoy about border patrols. His shoulders ached, and the scar from the arrow still twinged when he was tired.

He crossed to the bed, intending to collapse, and stopped.

Half a honey pastry sat on his pillow.

It was placed carefully, centered on the white linen, with a small piece of parchment folded beneath it. Jace picked up the note and unfolded it.

Truce—for now.

Joff's handwriting. That familiar, looping script he used when he wanted to seem careless. The same words he'd written a year ago, on the night after the wedding, when they'd both been too exhausted and too happy to sleep.

Jace smiled. He set the note down, broke off a piece of the pastry, and chewed slowly. Honey and almonds, the same kind Joff had been eating when they first met. The same kind he'd smeared on Jace's pillow out of spite.

Funny how things changed.

He crossed to Joff's desk, where a stack of papers waited for tomorrow. He found a small corner of an unfinished sketch—a bird with a pastry in its beak—and carefully placed a single crumb on the edge of the page. A response. A promise.

Then he turned and walked to the balcony doors.

Joff was already there, leaning against the stone railing, his silver hair catching the last light of sunset. The sky was a blend of gold and silver, the sun sinking behind the mountains while the first stars blinked to life in the east. The wind carried the smell of snow from the peaks and the warmth of sun-baked stone from the courtyard below.

Jace stepped up beside him. Their shoulders touched. Their fingers found each other, intertwining without a word.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The wind whispered through the balcony, carrying the distant sounds of the castle settling for the night. A bird called somewhere in the gardens. The candles in the room behind them flickered.

Joff's thumb traced a slow circle on Jace's knuckles. "A year."

"A year," Jace agreed.

"Can you believe it?"

Jace looked at their joined hands. At the white gold ring on Joff's finger, catching the dying light. At the dark iron band on his own, cool against his skin. "I don't know. Some days it feels like it just happened. Other days I can't remember what it was like before."

Joff turned his head, studying him. "Do you regret it?"

"No." The answer came without hesitation. "Never."

Joff's hand tightened around his. The sunset bled across the sky, gold melting into silver, the horizon line blurring until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

They stood like that, fingers intertwined, watching the light fade. The wind carried the smell of snow and sun-warmed stone, and somewhere in the distance, a bell began to toll the evening hour.

Joff leaned his head against Jace's shoulder. Jace rested his cheek against Joff's hair.

And the world, for a moment, was perfectly still.