He wasn’t dressed in black now. The Prince’s son stood tall and regal. Rather than blending into walls, he was now dressed to stand out. Like his father, his lower half was encased in rich fabric, a wide skirt that fell away from him, but in cleaner and sharper lines than the fall of the other men’s garments. The wide base of the skirt only held to accentuate the firmness of his waist, and the hard planes of muscle that rose from out of the metal-lozenged-belt. Unlike the older men, he wasn’t wearing a cloak, instead his solid body, firm stomach, broad chest, and defined arms were on display for all to see. 

Like an obscene mix of modesty and exhibitionism, the man’s lower extremities were entirely hidden, their outline permanently obscured behind the structured garment; while his top half proclaimed his virility to the world.

Samuel didn’t like the fact that he was looking so intently at this edge-lander. He knew he was gawking and longed to drag his eyes away. He didn’t though, he looked with a threatening intensity, drawing sharpened eyes along every line and angle. Cataloguing how the twisted metal of the armband compressed the bicep just a bit, enough to be visible. How the armband matched the heavy neck-ring. How the thick, antique gold lozenges that made up the circlet sat so perfectly in the man's smooth, lush, starkly pulled-back white hair. 

He didn’t have white hair earlier that day; and it hadn’t been long either. The men were wearing wigs. It was obvious once Samuel thought about it.

He looked over the deep tan skin that glowed golden in the light; matching the eyes. Skin, taut and smooth, like a canvas. Indeed it was a canvas. Just like the other men, there was an embroidery of painted lines tracing their way over small parts of his neck and face; but his chest and side and arms and belly too, their roots beginning somewhere below the waistband where no one could reach or see. Like flowering tendrils, an ivy vine growing up from the ground and sending it’s shoots out to encase the man; to caress him. 

As he moved down the staircase their was no hesitancy to his step, no checking his feet or concern about tripping on fabric. He gazed purposefully out upon the ballroom, holding every person’s eye. If Samuel had thought that Vince had presence, it was nothing compared with this. The only person the man didn’t seem to look at, was Samuel. Samuel seemed excluded from his gaze; while Samuel couldn’t take his eyes off him, but then, who could.

Coming to stand beside the Prince, father and son together looked formidable. The resemblance between the two radiated power and strength combined. One, merely an older copy of the other, both with wisdom behind their eyes, but the father had a twinkle behind his too. There was a hint of humour and fun that was entirely lacking from the son.

“The Prince Nikolaus.”

“Your Highness,” Martin made his second bow of the evening. This time no one paid any attention, they were still fixed on the new prince.

“How do you do? I do know the councillor father, I have been working with him these last two days,” Nikolaus supplied.

The older prince smiled indulgently and offered only a single word of explanation, “Etiquette”.

Nikolaus nodded once. This was a new and other formal reception, superceding all those that had gone before in the previous days. Everything to be repeated, introductions to be remade. Samuel could sympathise, having been dragged out to so many of these things in the past. At times it all felt like play-acting. The business had usually already happened behind closed doors. This was the photo-op, the public face of something that had already been decided and agreed on.

With the guests of honour now arrived, Councillor Martin switched immediately to become their shepherd and chaperone. Released from his spot, he now guided the group further into the ballroom, ready to introduce them, and answer questions, leading them into the merry dance of party and politics. The schmooze and the schmuck.

Samuel had already been forgotten, released from his duty the moment his father no longer had need of him. Councillor Martin swept past him with guests in tow, forcing him to take a hurried step back or be trampled. Samuel didn’t have to shake their hands, or look them in the eye. His father probably wouldn’t have trusted him to do it without sneering. So, the two Princes walked past, shielded from him by his father’s frame; and their entourage barely offered him a glance either. He was too young to be anyone important, so there was no reason to pay him any mind. 

Samuel sank back into the lee of the staircase. Now released, he could do what he did best, sip champagne and lose himself in his own thoughts, ignoring everyone. The perennial wallflower, he might as well be an ivy-vine.