The bathwater was perfectly warm, scented faintly with pine and mugwort. Steam curled up to the cedar ceiling, softening the harshness of palace stone and wood. For a rare moment, Yi Seojun let his mind drift, dark lashes heavy from the heat.

He almost dozed - until the creak of the bathhouse door broke the stillness.

His eyes snapped open, sharp instinct honed from years of being watched, measured, expected to perform.

Man-shik’s familiar wheeze drifted through the steam. “Your Highness, the new eunuch has arrived.”

Seojun raised an eyebrow. New eunuch? I didn’t request one.

Soft footsteps followed. He saw a shadow first - barely more than a silhouette in the heavy mist. Then the steam parted just enough to reveal…

A boy?

The recruit looked young, skin dewy from the steam. He clutched a towel like it was a shield, lips pressed tight as if afraid a single word might cost him his head.

Seojun’s first impression: utterly, hopelessly green. He almost groaned.

“Who are you?” he asked, letting his voice cut through the humid air.

The boy fumbled with something in his hands before holding out a nametag. Water dripped from Seojun’s hair onto the wooden floor as he leaned forward slightly to read it. Lee Chul.

His gaze flicked from the tag back to the boy’s face. Something didn’t quite add up. The young eunuch’s features were… soft. Almost delicate. And those eyes didn’t have the guarded look most of the older eunuchs carried. He’d met dozens, and they all learned to hide their emotions. This one practically wore it.

Still, he kept his thoughts to himself, letting a touch of irritation bleed into his tone.

“Well, Lee Chul… are you going to hand me that towel, or should I come get it myself?”

He watched the boy freeze, the hesitation deliciously obvious. Hn. Skittish as a rabbit.

When the recruit finally stepped forward, Seojun couldn’t help letting his gaze trail, studying the way he moved carefully. He let his gaze linger on him, assessing, as was his habit. Eunuchs usually kept their eyes lowered, voices clipped, bodies stiff from endless drills. But this one… he was jittery like a sparrow in the snow, as if one wrong move would send him fleeing. As if he had never received any training or learned to obey.

Seojun finally stood up and climbed out of the bathtub, droplets clinging to his lashes and a glistening trail of water was gliding down his toned stomach.

“Are you going to hand it over,” Seojun asked again, voice dropping into something dangerously smooth, “or simply stare at me all day?” He reached out lazily to take the towel...

...and the boy slipped.

Reflex took over. Seojun surged forward, his arm shooting out to catch him before he hit the ground. Suddenly, there was a warm press against his bare chest - hands splayed across him, tentative and soft.

For half a second, the crown prince just… froze.

Steam wrapped around them like a curtain, muting the rest of the world. He could feel the faint tremor in the recruit’s hands, the rush of his quickened breath against Seojun’s collarbone.

His grip tightened on the boy’s waist, steadying him with effortless strength.

“Clumsy,” he muttered, his voice rougher than intended.

Princess Yi Dohwa’s quarters were supposed to be quiet.

They were arranged with the sort of elegance Seojun had always found excessive even by palace standards: silk cushions in soft rose and cream, a polished screen painted with cranes and plum blossoms, lacquered boxes filled with ribbons, ornaments, and pins. A gayageum (Korean zither) rested near the window, its polished wood catching the afternoon light.

It was peaceful.

Naturally, Seojun ruined it.

The doors slid open before the ladies-in-waiting could properly announce him.

“Orabeoni,” Dohwa said, looking up from her seat before the mirror. Her voice was calm, but one brow lifted just enough to be insulting. “I thought the Crown Prince of Joseon had been raised better than to barge into a lady’s quarters.”

Seojun ignored the flutter of startled ladies-in-waiting and stepped inside with the full dignity of a man who knew perfectly well he was being rude and had decided it was everyone else’s problem.

Ahn Yu followed two paces behind him, composed as ever, one hand resting near his sword.

Dohwa saw him. For one brief, disastrous heartbeat, the princess forgot to be amused. Her fingers tightened around the hairpin in her hand. Her lips parted as if she meant to say something sensible, then failed to find anything sensible at all.

Ahn Yu bowed. “Princess.”

Dohwa’s cheeks warmed at once. “Ahn Yu,” she returned, far too softly.

Seojun stopped. His eyes narrowed, his gaze moving from Ahn Yu’s polite bow to the sudden color in Dohwa’s cheeks.

His sister immediately turned back toward the mirror, spine straightening as if nothing had happened. “And to what do I owe this interruption?”

“To Lee Chul,” Seojun said. The words came out colder than he intended.

Near Dohwa’s side, Lee Chul stood with a tray of hair ornaments in hand, looking entirely too settled for someone assigned to Seojun’s quarters. A pale ribbon hung over one wrist. Several daenggi lay across the tray, along with pins shaped like small blossoms and a delicate jade comb Dohwa had clearly been considering.

Seojun looked from the tray, to Dohwa, to Lee Chul. Then back to his sister. “You summoned him again.”

“I just borrowed him,” Dohwa corrected pleasantly. “You make it sound like I've stolen him.”

“He is not an ornament to be passed around whenever you grow bored.”

“No,” Dohwa agreed. “He is much more useful than an ornament.”

Seojun’s jaw tightened.

Dohwa smiled at him through the mirror. “Lee Chul has been helping me choose hairpins. He has a good eye.”

Seojun looked at the tray as if it had personally offended his bloodline. “He cannot tell a court sash from a curtain tie.”

“Perhaps not,” Dohwa said, lifting a small gold pin between two fingers, “but he has gentler hands than half my ladies-in-waiting.”

Seojun’s attention moved, unwillingly, to Lee Chul’s hands. Gentle? He looked away. “Then your ladies-in-waiting require better training.”

Dohwa’s smile sharpened. “How thoughtful of you to worry about the state of my household.”

“I am not worried about your household.”

“No. Of course not.” Dohwa turned slightly in her seat, the long fall of her hair shifting over one shoulder. “You stormed into my quarters in the middle of the afternoon because you are deeply concerned about—” Her gaze flickered to Lee Chul. “—about palace efficiency.”

Seojun gave her a look. She gave him one back. For a moment, neither sibling moved.

Then Dohwa’s gaze flicked back toward Lee Chul, and something bright with mischief crossed her face. “Actually,” she said, “Lee Chul has shown interest in my gayageum.”

Seojun went very still. “The gayageum,” he repeated.

Dohwa plucked one string lightly. The note trembled sweetly through the room. “Yes. He listens carefully when I play. That is rare. Most men only pretend.”

Seojun’s mouth curved, but there was no warmth in it. “Of course,” he said. “I should have known. My eunuch gets lost in corridors, cannot tell a court sash from a curtain tie, and now wishes to learn the delicate instrument of gisaengs.”

“Orabeoni,” Dohwa said, her voice lifting just enough to cut through the room.

Seojun heard the rebuke in it. His gaze moved, briefly, toward Lee Chul. Then he clicked his tongue and looked toward the baduk board resting near Dohwa’s low table. “If Lee Chul insists on wasting time with courtly amusements,” he said, more controlled now, “then he should begin with something useful.”

Dohwa followed his gaze. “Useful?”

“Baduk.”

Her brow arched. “I play baduk.”

“Not well enough to teach my servant.”

“Not well enough to teach a servant?” Dohwa repeated, her smile thinning.

“My servant,” Seojun corrected.

Dohwa stared at him for a moment. Then her smile returned, slow and bright and merciless. She turned back toward Lee Chul and lifted a small silver hair pin from the tray. “Well, if Orabeoni is so concerned with your education, perhaps he should teach you baduk himself.”

One of the ladies-in-waiting made a strangled sound and immediately pretended to cough.

Seojun’s gaze cut to his sister. Dohwa only smiled. Ahn Yu’s mouth did not move. His eyes, however, betrayed him. Seojun looked at every person in the room one by one, as if silently deciding whom he could accuse of treason first. Then his gaze settled on Lee Chul again.

“Bring the hairpins,” he said curtly. “If my sister cannot choose without assistance, then we will finish the task properly.” Seojun stepped farther into the room, robes whispering over the polished floor. “After that, Lee Chul will return to my quarters.”

Dohwa’s eyes sparkled. “And baduk?”

Seojun did not look at her. “After that,” he said, “I will decide whether he is capable of learning anything more complicated than standing still.”

Dohwa hid her smile behind her sleeve. Ahn Yu stared straight ahead, loyal enough not to laugh.

Seojun sat down across from his sister with all the rigid dignity of a man who had lost a battle he refused to acknowledge had taken place. Then he looked at Lee Chul and held out his hand.

“The jade comb,” he ordered. “Before my sister decides to borrow you permanently.”

The morning hunt had begun with three pheasants tied behind Seojun’s saddle, none behind Seobin’s, and Ahn Yu pretending not to notice how much satisfaction the Crown Prince took from both facts.

Late sunlight spilled across the hunting grounds, catching on the tall grass and the dark backs of the horses as the party moved along the edge of the woods. Somewhere nearby, Lee Chul had been sent to gather arrows from the brush, a task that should have been simple enough even for him.

Should have been.

Yi Seojun drew his horse to a slow halt and adjusted the bow in his hand with the calm satisfaction of a man who had, once again, proven a point without needing to say it aloud.

Beside him, Grand Prince Seobin clicked his tongue. “Hyung, must you look so pleased every time you hit something?”

Seojun did not look at him. “I would not need to look pleased if you hit something often enough to understand the feeling.”

Seobin gave a wounded sigh, though his grin ruined the effect. “The hunt has only just begun. I have plenty of arrows left.”

Seojun finally glanced toward the pheasants tied neatly behind his own saddle, then at the untouched quiver hanging from Seobin’s. “Yes,” he said. “That appears to be the problem. But I admire your optimism.”

Ahn Yu stood a few paces behind them, one hand resting near the hilt of his hwando, expression carefully neutral. Too carefully neutral, in Seojun’s opinion. The sort of neutral that meant he was silently judging everyone present and calling it duty.

Seobin noticed too. “Look at him,” the younger prince said, nodding toward Ahn Yu. “Even your bodyguard is laughing at you.”

Ahn Yu’s face did not change. “I would never laugh at His Highness.”

Seojun gave him a sidelong look.

Ahn Yu added, after a pause, “Openly.”

Seobin barked out a laugh.

Seojun drew another arrow from the quiver with exaggerated patience. “It seems I have become far too generous with the people around me.”

“You hear that, Lee Chul?” Seobin called toward the brush. “His Highness is in a merciful mood. Try not to ruin it.”

Seojun’s gaze flicked automatically toward the grass where Lee Chul had been sent to collect the spent arrows.

Too far.

Not dangerously far, perhaps. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But far enough that Seojun’s fingers tightened briefly around the shaft of the arrow. “Lee Chul,” he called, sharper than necessary. “Do not wander so far.” Then, because Seobin was looking at him with that infuriating smile, Seojun added, “If you get lost in an open field, I will have no choice but to question Man-shik’s judgment in assigning you to me.”

Seobin leaned forward over his horse’s neck, eyes bright with amusement. “I heard he gets lost in the palace sometimes.”

“He gets lost in rooms with one door,” Seojun said. Ahn Yu made a sound suspiciously close to a cough. Seojun ignored him.

The easy noise of the morning settled around them again — creaking leather, quiet horse-breath, the faint snap of banners at the edge of the field.

Then the brush moved.

Ahn Yu’s head turned first.

The sound came again, low and violent: a rough rustle in the trees beyond the clearing. One of the horses stamped and tossed its head. Seobin’s smile faded.

Seojun straightened. “Ahn Yu,” he said.

“I hear it.”

The boar burst from the undergrowth like a dark, furious shadow. For one frozen breath, everything sharpened. The animal was huge, foam flecking its mouth, one side of its hide already torn from some earlier struggle in the woods. It charged blindly into the clearing, tusks flashing, hooves tearing up earth.

And Lee Chul was on foot.

Seojun reacted before thought could catch up with him. “Lee Chul, move!”

He lifted his bow, drew, and released. The arrow flew fast. Too fast. Too rushed. It cut across the boar’s shoulder instead of burying deep, grazing flesh and making the beast scream rather than fall. A cold shock went through Seojun’s chest. He had missed. No — not missed. Worse. He had wounded it.

The boar swerved, enraged, and charged harder.

“Damn it,” Seojun breathed.

Ahn Yu was already moving. His arrow struck next, clean and low, biting into the boar’s flank. The impact slowed the animal, twisting its charge just enough to break its straight path, but not enough to stop it. Dirt sprayed beneath its hooves. One horse reared. Seobin cursed and dragged hard on the reins.

The boar kept coming.

Ahn Yu dropped his bow. Steel flashed. He crossed the last distance with frightening speed, drawing his hwando in one smooth motion. The blade caught the sunlight for half a heartbeat before he drove himself between Lee Chul and the beast.

The impact was brutal.

The boar slammed forward. Ahn Yu shifted, turned with it, and brought the sword down with both hands. The blade struck deep. The animal thrashed once, twice, then collapsed heavily into the torn grass.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Only the horses panted. Only the leaves trembled.

Then Seojun was off his horse.

He did not remember deciding to dismount. One moment he was in the saddle, the next his boots hit the ground and he was crossing the field, robe snapping around his legs.

“Lee Chul.” His voice came out too sharp. Too loud.

He reached Lee Chul and caught him by the shoulders before he could think better of it, eyes scanning his face, his throat, his sleeves, the front of his robe. “Are you hurt?”

He did not wait for an answer before his hands moved, brisk and searching. He tugged at one sleeve, checked the wrist beneath it, then the other, looking for blood, torn fabric, any sign that tusk or hoof had found flesh.

“Did it touch you?” he demanded. “Answer me.” His hand rose to Lee Chul’s face before he could stop himself, fingertips brushing along the jaw, turning him slightly toward the light as if injury might be hiding there too.

Only then did the silence around them become noticeable.

Seojun looked up.

Seobin sat very still on his horse, one brow raised. Ahn Yu stood beside the dead boar with his hwando lowered, expression blank in the way that meant it was anything but.

Seojun’s hand was still on Lee Chul’s face. Slowly, he let go. His jaw tightened. “You,” he said, voice dropping back into something colder, safer, more princely, “are remarkably talented at standing in the worst possible place.”

Behind him, Seobin made a small, thoughtful sound. Ahn Yu wiped his blade clean in silence. Neither of them said a word.

Somehow, that was worse.

Seojun's royal outer robes were folded neatly across the low table, replaced by a dark blue hanbok fine enough to pass for a young nobleman’s without drawing immediate attention. His hair remained tied beneath a black gat (hat), the brim casting a shadow over his face. A small pouch of coins rested beside his hand.

Across the chamber, Ahn Yu stood dressed in similarly plain clothes, though the sword at his side made the disguise somewhat less convincing.

Seojun looked him over. “You appear too much like a bodyguard.”

“I am a bodyguard.”

“Tonight, you are my cousin.”

Ahn Yu’s expression remained calm. “Your cousin who follows two steps behind you with a sword."

Seojun adjusted his sleeve. “Then at least try smiling.” Ahn Yu just looked at him. Seojun clicked his tongue. “Never mind. That would be more suspicious.”

The chamber doors slid open.

Both men turned.

Lee Chul stood at the entrance with a folded robe draped over his arms, clearly having arrived to complete some ordinary palace duty.

For one silent moment, no one moved.

Seojun narrowed his eyes.

Ahn Yu spoke first. “This is unfortunate. He will tell Man-shik.”

Seojun’s gaze snapped to him. “What if he does not?”

Ahn Yu looked at Lee Chul. Then back at Seojun. “What if he does?”

Seojun’s jaw tightened. If Man-shik heard of this, there would be scolding. Worse, there would be sighing. The old eunuch had perfected the sort of sigh that could make Seojun feel like a badly behaved boy without ever raising his voice. Seojun looked at Lee Chul again. The eunuch still held the folded robe, caught in the doorway between ordinary duty and whatever trouble the Crown Prince had decided to become.

The silence stretched. At last, Seojun made a decision. “Then he comes with us.”

Ahn Yu closed his eyes. "Your Highness—"

But Seojun kept talking. “Tonight, you are not a palace eunuch,” he said to Lee Chul. “You are not to mention the palace, my name, Man-shik’s name, or anything more dangerous than the weather. Tonight you are just a young nobleman's servant.”

"Not entirely untrue," Ahn Yu sighed.

Before Lee Chul could become any more inconvenient, Seojun pressed a bundle of plain clothes and a borrowed gat into his arms. “Change.”

The city at night belonged to another world. Lanterns swayed above narrow streets, glowing red and gold through the faint mist. Vendors called softly from stalls. Somewhere, someone laughed too loudly over rice wine. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts, damp earth, oil lamps, and freedom.

The gisaeng house stood along a busy street bright with lanterns and late-evening noise. Music drifted from within, mingling with laughter, conversation, and the warm scent of grilled meat and rice wine. Men in fine robes passed through the entrance beside servants and attendants carrying trays.

The moment they stepped inside Wolhyang House, Seojun changed.

Some of the stiffness left his shoulders. The watchful distance he carried inside the palace softened beneath the anonymity of ordinary clothes. No court officials watched his every breath. No ministers bowed while silently measuring his worth. Here, he could simply be a wealthy young nobleman with an arrogant expression and too much confidence.

Which, Ahn Yu had once remarked, required very little acting.

They were led to a private room overlooking the garden courtyard. Lantern light glowed through paper screens, and the faint plucking of a gayageum floated in from the adjoining chamber. Cushions had been arranged around a low table already prepared with small dishes, fruit, and ceramic bottles of wine.

Seojun poured himself a cup. Then he filled another for Ahn Yu before holding the bottle toward Lee Chul. He paused. His eyes narrowed as though reconsidering the offer. “You look as though one cup would make you confess to every crime committed in Joseon.”

Three gisaeng entered in a whisper of silk and perfume. One carried a gayageum, another balanced a tray of cups, and the third walked empty-handed, smiling as though she had already discovered something entertaining. She was perhaps a few years older than Seojun, with clever eyes and a red ribbon braided through her dark hair. “Welcome back, young master,” she said.

Seojun inclined his head, accepting the greeting without explaining how often back might mean. The woman’s eyes rested briefly on Ahn Yu. His plain clothing did little to disguise the sword at his side or the watchfulness in his posture. Even seated, he carried himself like a man prepared to move before anyone else noticed danger.

“A wealthy young master,” she mused, “and an escort who watches the doors instead of the women. You must attract interesting trouble.”

“Only tedious trouble,” Seojun replied, lifting his cup.

Her gaze followed his toward Lee Chul.

This time, she paused.

The borrowed gat shadowed much of Lee Chul’s face, but not enough to hide the softness of his features beneath the lantern light. The gisaeng’s eyes lingered with quiet amusement before she stepped closer and poured wine into the waiting cup. “And what of your pretty companion?” she asked. “Is he part of the trouble?”

Seojun’s hand stilled halfway to his mouth. “Do not flatter him,” he said. “He is already incompetent enough without becoming vain.”

The gisaeng laughed softly, though her attention remained on Lee Chul. “And yet you brought him. Incompetent men are rarely kept quite so close.”

“He was not kept close,” Seojun said. “He became unavoidable.”

She moved around the table, silk whispering over the floor, and studied the brim of Lee Chul’s borrowed gat with the knowing curiosity of someone who had seen countless disguises arrive at Wolhyang House and believed she understood this one too.

“Many young ladies grow curious about places forbidden to them,” she said lightly. “A brother’s clothes, a borrowed gat, a little courage…”

For one beat, the room went quiet.

Then Seojun laughed.

The sound was brief and genuinely amused, the idea too absurd to deserve anything more. Beside him, even Ahn Yu’s mouth curved faintly before he raised his cup.

The gisaeng merely smiled. She offered no apology and no further explanation, only bowed with graceful composure before withdrawing to arrange the evening’s music with the other women.

The door slid closed behind them.

Seojun was still smiling when he turned toward Lee Chul.

Then the smile faded.

Lantern light softened the face beneath the gat, catching on dark lashes, smooth skin, and features he had always dismissed as merely too delicate. The gisaeng’s ridiculous suggestion returned before he could stop it.

Absurd.

Lee Chul was a eunuch. Seojun knew that perfectly well. His gaze lingered anyway—one moment too long.

Seojun leaned closer before realizing he had moved at all, his eyes narrowing beneath the brim of his own hat.

“Take off the gat.”

By morning, Crown Prince Yi Seojun had decided that death would have been less inconvenient.

Not because he was dying.

Man-shik had assured him of that three times. Ahn Yu had said it once, which was already more medical confidence than Seojun wished to hear from a man whose usual cure for most problems involved a sword. Even the royal physician, after taking his pulse and leaving behind a bowl of bitter medicine, had declared it nothing worse than a fever brought on by cold rain, late hours, and royal stupidity.

He had not spoken the last part aloud.

He had not needed to.

Seojun lay propped against silk pillows in his private chamber, his black hair loose from its usual neat tie and his robe hanging open slightly at the throat. A brazier glowed near the low table, warming the room without quite driving the chill from his bones. Beyond the papered windows, rain tapped softly and relentlessly, as though the sky itself had chosen to scold him.

The previous night had been worth it.

Probably.

There had been music in the city, rice wine warm enough to chase winter from his blood, and a merchant who had argued poetry so badly that Seojun had nearly exposed his identity out of offense alone. Ahn Yu had eventually dragged him back through the rain before dawn, looking as though he regretted every oath of loyalty he had ever taken.

Now the bodyguard stood near the chamber doors, dry, composed, and entirely too healthy.

Man-shik hovered beside the bed with the physician’s medicine in both hands. Seojun regarded the dark liquid with the suspicion normally reserved for enemy armies. “No.”

The old eunuch’s expression tightened. “Your Highness, you have refused the medicine, thrown off every blanket I placed over you, and accused the physician of conspiring against the royal household.”

“The porridge was badly seasoned,” Seojun muttered.

Ahn Yu lowered his gaze, though not quickly enough to hide his amusement.

Seojun narrowed his eyes at him. “Do not laugh.”

“I did not, Your Highness.”

“You were considering it," Seojun accused weakly.

“I consider many things.”

Man-shik released a sigh heavy enough to carry decades of personal suffering. Then his attention shifted toward Lee Chul near the doorway. “Perhaps His Highness will behave for someone he has not spent the entire morning tormenting.”

Seojun’s eyes followed his immediately. “Come here,” he ordered.

The words emerged rougher than usual, scraped thin by fever. Seojun disliked the weakness in his voice almost as much as he disliked the way the chamber seemed colder whenever Lee Chul stood beyond his reach.

He forced himself more upright before anyone could help him, only for the room to tilt unpleasantly around him. One hand tightened against the bedding until the dizziness passed.

Man-shik noticed, of course. Man-shik noticed everything. “Your Highness—”

“I am fine.”

The old eunuch looked unconvinced but wisely refrained from listing symptoms. Instead, he placed the medicine on the low table with the solemnity of a battlefield challenge. “You will drink that before it cools.”

Seojun glanced at the bowl. “It cannot become worse.”

“It can.” Man-shik insisted.

Ahn Yu turned toward the door, his shoulders held with the rigid discipline of a man determined not to smile. “I should inspect the guards.”

“You should remain and suffer with me,” Seojun said.

“I believe one of us should continue serving Joseon effectively.” Ahn Yu bowed and escaped into the corridor.

Man-shik lingered a moment longer, fussing with the blankets despite Seojun’s irritation. His expression remained stern, though concern softened the lines around his eyes. “I will return shortly,” he said. “Lee Chul, see that His Highness rests—and that the medicine does not somehow find its way out the window.”

“That happened only once,” Seojun muttered.

The old eunuch left without comment, which was somehow more insulting than another lecture.

Quiet settled over the chamber. Rain whispered against the windows, and the brazier crackled softly near the table. For several moments, Seojun lay still beneath the heavy blankets, stubbornly suppressing the cough building in his chest.

The effort lasted less than a minute.

He turned his face into his sleeve, coughing until pain tightened behind his eyes. When it passed, he sank back against the pillows and closed them, breathing slowly through the lingering ache.

“The cloth,” he said at last, tipping his chin faintly toward the basin of water.

The command lacked its usual sharpness. Fever had stripped away much of the composed Crown Prince who faced ministers without blinking. With his hair loose, his face pale, and exhaustion softening the severity of his expression, he looked younger than usual.

When the cool, damp cloth was laid across his forehead, Seojun let out a quiet breath. For one brief moment, the tension left his face. Then he seemed to realize how readily he had relaxed.

“You are doing it wrong,” he murmured, though there was no real criticism in the words.

Even with his eyes half-closed, Seojun kept glancing toward Lee Chul, as though making certain he was still nearby. After a moment, he tapped the space beside the bed. “Closer.” He shifted beneath the blankets, searching for a reason that sounded less pathetic than the truth. “I may need something.”

His eyes moved toward the untouched medicine nearby and narrowed. “Not that though.”

Seojun tapped the space beside his bed once more. “Sit. There.” Where he could see Lee Chul without turning his head.

The rain continued to slide down the windows in thin silver lines. Seojun closed his eyes, though the tension in his brow did not fully ease. After several quiet breaths, he spoke again. “Tell me something.”

His voice had softened, stripped of most of its princely authority by exhaustion. “A story, perhaps. Something entertaining enough to distract me from Man-shik’s attempt to murder me with herbs.”

One corner of his mouth lifted faintly. “If it is dull, I will assume you are doing it deliberately.” Outside, the rain continued. Inside, the Crown Prince of Joseon lay feverish, unreasonable, and very clearly unwilling to let Lee Chul leave his sight.