A shot rang out through the air, the green attacker screeching in pain as he grabbed his wounded shoulder. Dark saw the blood gushing from between his fingers, red on green.

Wilford stood in the doorway, pistol still aimed for the man. Finger on the trigger. He'd shoot again if he must. If Anti chose to be difficult. "Not bloody likely, Anti." He said sternly, staring him down. Wilford's eyes were fierce, stabbing hot daggers into the would be attacker. These were not the eyes he had given Dark just moments ago.

"Shit-" 'Anti' couldn't move his arm to attack now, not without causing himself excruciating pain. Dark's been shot before. So he knows the pain. All too well. "You'll fuckin' pay for this." He snarled through clenched teeth. Defeated and wounded, there wasn't much else he could do. He cast one more glare to Dark. And then he was gone. Just like that.

He left but a puff of smoke in his wake.

Dark let out a breath, one he just realized he'd been holding. "Wilford..." he was barely able to get that out. But his eyes gave the words he wanted to say quite clearly. The questions he wanted to ask.

"I had a feeling... something would happen." Wilford dismissed, staring off to where Anti had been. A scowl present of his face. "You're just lucky I was nearby."

But why had he been? The ball had to be over with by now.

He was thankful, yes. But why still be here?

Wilford drummed his fingers over his thighs. He looked deep in thought. "... Well then!" He suddenly spouted, "How are you feeling?"

This felt odd.

Dark could hear the guards storming down the hall. They heard the gunshot. A little too late.

The prince before him looked to the door, sidestepping over to the bed until he was right beside him. Dark had a feeling the guards wouldn't believe a word Wilford said. Not with the gun still smoking in his hands. They loved to jump to conclusions. He's witnessed it.

He reached a shaky hand up, grabbing Wilford's sleeve.

The touch hadn't been expected. That much was evident in the way he jumped. But it felt... comfortable. Wilford felt comfortable to him. Despite barely knowing him for a day.

The guards burst in, each one of them shouting something. Dark hated the noise. Wilford could barely get a word in himself.

"Stop." The prince groaned out, eyelids heavier than the lead that dragged down his limbs. He had to swallow a few times, fighting to speak clearly. "He saved me. The culprit... he's long... long gone. Please-stop your damned shouting."

It was so hard to concentrate. The adrenaline from the attack had left him. His cheek stung.

"And get the doctor."

It was a good three and a half days before Dark was up and walking again. Thanks to the doctor. He was out cold for all that time, and was just now getting a run down on what the hell was wrong with him.

"I'll have to send this sample to a colleague of mine." Dr. Iplier explained, "Just to be certain." He swirled the curious liquid in the corked vial.

"Certain of what?" Asked Dark, a hand coming to touch the gauze on his cheek. The doctor swatted at it and scolded him.

"Don't touch." He chastised, "I just want to rule out the possibility of poison. The ball was quite busy that night. All it takes is a second. A glance away from your glass is all someone needs."

"I was wearing a mask. No one knew who I-" there were a few. "... We may need to question some select individuals." He leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose. The tailor he could rule out. He doubted the old man would do anything. There was also that pesky duke.

And Wilford.

As much as he didn't want to believe it, he couldn't rule the smooth talker out.

It did seem too good to be true. A handsome prince just showing up out of the blue, sweeping him off his feet. Dark may have let the wine get to his head just a little too much. How many glasses had he had at the ball? He couldn't remember.

But if it was Wilford, and he had been poisoned; why would Wilford bother rescuing him from that Anti fellow at all? Usually when one poisons another it's to kill them, is it not?

It simply didn't make any sense to the prince.

"I've heard about that Anti. Your attacker. He's a real common threat around my colleague's parts." Dr. Iplier tsked, cleaning up his workspace. "Common, like a bug. And as devastating as the plague."

"Sounds like one potentially lethal combination, doctor. Could he have been the one to poison me?" The known murderer seemed a more likely bet, now that he thought about it.

"From what Doctor Schneeplestein has told me in conversations past, poison isn't part of his... method."

Dark watched him, seeing the doctor hesitate. "... What would be his... 'method'?"

"I... ah, I'll spare you the details. But suffice it to say... Brutality."

That chilled him.

Dark could only imagine what would have occurred had Wilford not stepped in when he had.

Iplier cleared his throat, "Now. If you wouldn't mind removing your shirt. I would like to check over your scars. See if our treatments have made them any less visible. And painful."

Dark grunted, unbuttoning his shirt. He hadn't yet been able to change into a fresh outfit. The entire palace had been in uproar once the news of the attempt on his life spread. And to be fair, he had been unconscious for a good while. "Very well, but let's make it quick."

He let the garment fall off his shoulders, awaiting for the poking and the prodding. But it never came. "Doctor?" He turned his head, and there the doctor stood, back of his hand pressed tightly against his mouth as his eyes practically bulged out of his skull. "You're looking at me like I've caught the damned plague."

"I-I apologize, your majesty. I was just shocked!" He tried to explain, "I hadn't known you found your Soulmark! Congratulations!"

What was he talking about? Dark could almost laugh. He looked down, at his shoulder. His heart suddenly felt light. Yet a knot was forming in his stomach. "Oh damn it all." He cursed.

There, contrasting against pale gray skin. Right on his shoulder. Was the mark of a hand, fingers curled as though grabbing onto his shoulder. It was pitch black, with a bald strike along the palm where the gray could peek through.

He knew one instance recently where someone had touched him as such. The ball. With Wilford.

He should have felt delighted.

And yet here he was. Both yearning for and dreading the person it belonged to.

"... This is to belong between you and I. Do you understand me?" Dark locked eyes with the doctor, who dared not to disagree. "Good..."

He couldn't believe his rotten luck. The man of his dreams, his Soulmark, could possibly be after his head on a silver platter.

"No one needs to know about this."