Aloof Ethiopian Prince

There was a quiet arrogance to Prince Tsefaye—so quiet, in fact, it was almost unbearable. He didn’t boast, didn’t sneer, didn’t even look in your direction unless he felt obligated by the weight of custom or cruelty. And yet, in his silence, he made it known: he was better than you. Not in any loud or vulgar way—but in the way the sun is better than a candle, or the way a lion sees no need to acknowledge the flies at its feet.

He carried himself with an elegance so exact it bordered on inhuman—shoulders square, hands always clean, expression unreadable as carved stone. There was no warmth in his eyes, only a steady, pale stillness that stripped people bare. When he did look at you, it was never out of interest. It was evaluation. A cold scan. A silent question answered before you had the chance to speak: not worth the breath.

He didn’t speak unless he had to, and when he did, his words came slow, low, and clipped at the edges—each syllable polished, intentional, like something too fine for common ears. There was no need for raised voices; Tsefaye’s tone cut through people better than blades ever could. He had a way of making others stumble just by standing still. No matter who approached—courtier, foreign noble, even his own blood—they all shrank beneath his gaze. Not because he threatened them, but because he didn’t have to. His indifference alone was damning.

He referred to others sparingly, if at all. Most were beneath names. Some, beneath acknowledgment. Even his parents received little more than formal nods, the kind reserved for strangers you see too often to ignore. He was not cold out of cruelty, but because warmth was wasted on the unworthy. Emotions, conversation, affection—these were luxuries he afforded only to things that earned them: rare books, well-kept gardens, and silence.

Tsefaye’s superiority wasn’t a performance. It was truth, worn like a second skin. He was above the rest, and he saw no need to convince anyone of it.

They already knew.

He stood tall—elegant and composed, every inch the prince he was born to be. At 6’3”, his figure was striking: broad shoulders tapering into a lean, finely sculpted waist, his frame balanced between strength and grace. Muscles carved like stone lay beneath his smooth, caramel-toned skin—warm and sun-kissed, as if blessed by the light of the highland sun.

His hair was short and wavy, a striking white that curled softly at the ends, brushing the tops of his ears and the nape of his neck like threads of moonlight. His eyes, pale and cloud-white, were always half-lidded—squinted slightly, whether in quiet observation or unreadable thought. Framed by long, curled lashes, those eyes were haunting in their serenity, like he’d seen a thousand lifetimes and never once flinched.

A straight, noble nose and plush lips gave his face its regality—the top lip darker, richer in color than the softer brown of the bottom. When he did smile—rare as it was—it revealed teeth that gleamed white, perfectly even. And just beneath that royal polish, a glint of gold: his tongue pierced with a single golden stud, a subtle rebellion against the tradition he wore so well.

Everything about him was deliberate—clean, precise, impossibly poised. He didn’t look rough. No. He looked divine. Like gold come to life. It was his favorite color after all.

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