⊰ ♖ ⊱
There were few things that Arvis Velthomer detested as intensely as balls. Why people delighted in their mere mention and wagged their tongues endlessly about what they would wear and whomever they would ask for companionship during the event ( and gods knew what else ) was beyond him. From what he had seen of them they could reduce grown, greyed politicians to the same starry-eyed baseless excitement as debutantes seeking out potential suitors, and he could not begin to fathom why. The king would often tote him around behind him during the grander events laughing and amicably brushing his hair out of his face, turning him towards the young ladies of the realm and urging him forward to enjoy himself without realising how little Arvis cared for women. As he grew older the king would usher him towards the other dukes more often instead, cheerily attempting to goad him into some out-of-the-office intermingling. ‘You always have such a lonely expression on your face, my boy!’, he would say, ‘companionship could do wonders for a work-weary soul such as yours!’
King Azmur had always seemed to forget just how severe the age gap was between himself and every other duke of the realm. Striking up a friendship with someone forty years one’s senior was difficult at best and outright impossible when they totally lacked his respect to begin with. Balls were nuisances he attended either out of personal obligation or to stand as the king’s personal guard, nothing more, nothing less. He disliked them so much he nearly turned Lyon’s invitation down straight away once the courier brought him a letter sent from faraway Magvel. It was only what the prince had written about using it as a means to meet and continue the conversations they’d had before about improving their respective nations for the common peoples that he gave it a second thought and eventually, begrudgingly wrote back. The sorcerer would not be one to pass up such an ample opportunity to bolster Velthomer’s ( and Grannvale’s at large ) standing with the international community.
Arvis was no fool, as Lyon well knew, but the prince had failed to anticipate exactly how fixated the duke truly was on his ideals. He was as a racehorse in the starting gate, pre-fitted with blinders to focus on the goals ahead of him. Whatever subtexts had been included in the letter, beyond a curious level of general casualty from the Gradoan, had been lost on him.
And so he attended the ball.
Fine silken robes draped heavily against his body, layers of thin, dense fabric and golden tassels hanging from ropes swaying and rippling in time with his movements as though they were woven from liquid. It was desert garb, made to withstand intense winds whipping sand up into the eyes and extremes in temperature while keeping formal. If he were to attend a ball full of foreign dignitaries he ought to dress the part not just of a nobleman but of a Velthomer nobleman, to serve properly as a dignitary and a representative of his state in presence and cultural dress both. Valflame hung at his side as it always did, but with all the blacks and reds and golds of his outfit it fit right in with the rest of the ensemble, weapon or not. He allowed his eyes to wander, tracing every interesting face he settled on, running through researched names and locales in his head until he was interrupted.
It took him a moment to fully snap to attention after turning to address Lyon, but the recognition was instant. He had always had a fondness for lavender hair.
“Your Highness.”
Lyon was offered a short, shallow bow. Courtesies and court-play were ever ingrained in bluebloods, even if he did quietly detest the whole system of it.
"My thanks for the invitation. I must admit, I am not much of a ‘party person’, if you’ll allow the phrase, but you did offer me an opportunity that was quite difficult to resist. Do you make inviting foreign nationals to these sorts of things a habit, or am I an exception??”
⚝
Lyon takes a moment to reply. He knows implicitly that Arvis’ actions are nothing more than formalities. Surely, Arvis would great any prince the same, and yet the fluttering in his heart stifles Lyon’s breath regardless. So kind to him, so amiable to him. He even admits he’s not a party person! Lyon’s fantasies get away from him faster than Arvis can finish his question -- he came for Lyon.
❝ You are something of an exception, ❞ he says. One arm folds across his chest, while the hand of the other raises and twirls a lock of hair between his fingers. By the stones, Arvis is tall...
❝ Grado relies on her neighbors for imported foods and other such goods. I couldn’t justify inviting a Grannvallan dignitary and none of her allies... ❞ But he could, and did, justify not inviting either of the twins. Perhaps it had been an insult to King Fado -- receiving a letter so late gave them not enough time to prepare to arrive, and so their presence is lacking.
But it’s for the best. Even if Arvis had not agreed to attend, Lyon was in the stages of preparing to take the throne, and he needs his attention on those he can’t already plan around or trust. And he has all night to butter up nobles that aren’t Arvis, so he can surely indulge this now.
His gaze drifts to the side, and he resists the urge to bite his lip. ❝ Truthfully, I dislike the crowds as well... Would you prefer to discuss things somewhere more quiet? ❞
He’d already prepared a parlor suitable. There’s a balcony so they could watch the stars... A bottle of wine already waits for them there, in case the mood calls for it. ❝ The party can survive without us for a little bit, don’t you agree? ❞
〔 💀 〕
