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Euijoo was gone again. The words echoed in Fuma’s mind with the dull inevitability of sunrise, a familiar irritation settling between his shoulder blades. It was always the same. An empty room, an open window, and the lingering realization that the prince of the realm had once again slipped past an entire royal security division as if they were nothing more than mildly decorative furniture.
Fuma sighed, not even bothering to alert the others. He already knew where to look. He had learned, over months and then years, that raising an alarm only ended with half the guard scrambling uselessly while Prince Euijoo merrily roamed the countryside. Fuma had long since accepted that his job was less “Royal Guard” and more “full-time babysitter to a very ambitious cat.”
The Prince had a habit. A deeply aggravating, deeply Euijoo habit of sneaking out of the palace in disguise to “walk among his people” like some kind of folk hero. He always left a trail behind, half a heel print in a flower bed, an apple missing from the kitchen, the faint scent of cologne that no disguise could fully hide. It would’ve been easier, so much easier, if Euijoo were sloppy. But no, he was careful. Clever. A master of slipping through cracks that shouldn’t even exist. And somehow, he still managed to leave just enough clues that Fuma could track him, as if he wanted to be found. As if this entire ritual was a game only the two of them were playing.
Fuma followed it like a well-worn path, through winding alleys, past lantern-lit stalls, across the bustling evening markets where he exchanged curt nods with merchants who recognized him, the stoic shadow always hunting for one particular runaway prince.
Sure enough, he spotted Euijoo half an hour later near the Town Pavilion, cloak flipped over his shoulder, hair slightly tousled, casually chatting with a group of street musicians. Euijoo blended in effortlessly, laughing at their jokes and tapping his fingers to their rhythm, as though he hadn’t been born in silk sheets and raised beneath chandeliers. His smile glowed under the lantern lights, charming enough that no one questioned why a stranger had such regal posture.
Euijoo laughed at something and leaned in, utterly relaxed. Too relaxed, Fuma thought. Completely unaware of the trouble he caused. Completely delighted by the freedom he stole.
Fuma crossed his arms, leaning against a post behind him. “Enjoying your freedom, Your Highness?” His tone was flat, unimpressed, though the sight of Euijoo alive and unharmed sent a subtle wash of relief through him.
Euijoo turned, unsurprised. “Fuma,” He said with a grin. “I was starting to think you’d let me have the night off.” That grin, sharp, bright, and infuriatingly pleased, was the same one he always wore when caught red-handed.
“You’ve had the last three nights off.” And Fuma had spent each of them combing the city like a hound chasing a very slippery fox. Every night he dragged Euijoo back to the palace only to find him gone the next.
“I needed all three for research.” Euijoo’s tone was shameless. He even shrugged, as though that settled the matter.
Fuma raised a brow. “Does your research often involve juggling fruit with teenagers?” He gestured toward the cluster of kids Euijoo had somehow adopted for the evening. One of them, the one with bright pink hair, waved, already fond of the prince disguised as a stranger.
“Vital cultural insight.”
Fuma stepped closer. “Vital cultural insight is about to get you run over.”
Euijoo blinked. Slow, unaware. Oblivious to danger in the way only someone protected their whole life could be.
And then he heard it. A sharp whistle, the clatter of horses. There was a runaway cart flying around the corner. Without thinking, Fuma lunged forward and grabbed Euijoo by the wrist, yanking him safely against his chest just as the cart thundered past. The world blurred for a heartbeat. Wind, dust, and hooves, a rush of chaos that vanished as quickly as it came. Fuma felt the thud of Euijoo’s heartbeat through their pressed chests, and realized his own was just as frantic.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The crowd’s noise faded. The lantern light flickered around them. All that existed was the warmth of Euijoo held against him.
Then something glowed. A faint pulse, like embers catching fire.
A soft warmth bloomed against Euijoo’s wrist, where Fuma’s hand still gripped him tightly. The black soulmark there, shaped like a thumbprint just under the edge of his cuff, had erupted into radiant and unmistakable color. Color, bright, swirling, and alive, spread outward like ink dropped in water. A soulmark.
Euijoo looked down. His breath hitched, almost silent.
“Oh,” he said, very quietly.
Fuma immediately let go. “You- you must’ve touched someone else earlier.” His voice cracked. He stepped back as if burned, denial flooding his face in a rare, unguarded panic.
Euijoo snorted. “Fuma.”
“It happens,” Fuma continued, a little too fast. “Brush past someone in the crowd, maybe they-” He gestured vaguely at nothing, already spiraling. The possibility, the impossibility, left him scrambling for excuses that sounded thinner by the second.
“Fuma,” Euijoo repeated, turning to face him fully, eyes bright. Those eyes glowed like he’d just solved a puzzle he had been waiting months to understand.
Fuma hesitated. Then Euijoo held his arm out, palm up. “Here,” he said, smiling gently. “Try again. Just to be sure.” The gesture was simple, but the meaning behind it thrummed between them.
Fuma hesitated. His hand hovered, trembling despite his best efforts.
Then, slowly, he reached out and pressed his thumb to the mark. The mark flared, a subtle warmth enveloping the both of them. No mistaking it. No running from it. The bond recognized what they had been circling for years.
Euijoo grinned. “Well, that settles that.” He sounded delighted. Maybe even relieved.
Fuma blinked at him. “You’re not… surprised?”
“Oh, I’m very surprised,” Euijoo said. “You’ve been chasing me all over the kingdom for two years. I just didn’t realize you were chasing your soulmate the whole time.” His tone was soft, teasing, and impossibly tender.
Fuma’s lips twitched. “That makes it sound romantic.”
Euijoo raised a brow. “It is romantic.”
Fuma looked down at their hands again, then back at him. “Does this mean you’ll stop sneaking out?” He already knew the answer. But he asked anyway.
Euijoo tilted his head. “Hmm… no. But now, I know exactly who will come find me.” He said it with shameless confidence, the kind that made Fuma want to scold him and kiss him in equal measure.
Fuma laughed, quiet, low, and warm. “You really are impossible.”
“And yet,” Euijoo said, smiling, “you still show up.”