The stale air of the dungeon clung to Alastor's silk robes like a persistent, unwanted guest. He surveyed the scene before him with the detached amusement of a man watching a particularly inept performance. A seven-year-old girl, scrawny and pale, sat huddled in a corner, her unkempt white hair – a perfect match to his own – framing a face that mirrored his own impassiveness.

"This is the child?" he asked, his tone suggesting he might as well be discussing a particularly uninteresting piece of furniture.

Captain Rowan shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting between the king and the small, stoic figure huddled in the corner. "Yes, Your Majesty," he replied, his voice barely a whisper. "This is her."

Alastor's gaze fell upon the child, her face as pale and expressionless as a porcelain doll. "She looks like a rat," he declared as if announcing a royal proclamation. Rowan, his face pale, remained silent, unsure how to respond to such a declaration.

“Then again,” Alastor mused, his gaze sweeping over the decrepit basement, “I suppose only rats would live in this place,” he muttered, looking around at the dank walls that seemed to echo his disdain. A rat scurries by, as if to confirm his point.

Rowan desperately wished he could disappear, preferably through the conveniently mouldy wall behind him. He swallowed hard before mumbling, "The maids... they were raising her in secret, Your Majesty. After... after the incident."

"Why bother?" Alastor's eyes, the same midnight blue as the child's, narrowed indifferently. "Couldn't they just dispose of her? Save everyone the trouble," He peered at the child, who seemed to be observing him with the detached curiosity of a cat watching a particularly boring bird.

"It's... It's the resemblance, Your Highness," Rowan stammered, realizing the King's meaning. "The girl... she looks too—"

"Ah, fear, huh?" Alastor chuckled a harsh sound that grated on Rowan's nerves. He leaned down, his white hair, with its hint of blue, practically grazing the girl's head. "Though covered in grime, she does resemble me."

The resemblance was undeniable. The girl's white hair, with its subtle blue undertone, was a mirror image of Alastor's own. And those deep blue eyes, as cold and sharp as obsidian shards, were his signature. The child was the product of a fleeting encounter with a maid, a memory Alastor had long since dismissed. She had died shortly after giving birth, leaving the girl to be raised in the shadows by other maids, all too aware of the danger of having a child that looked too much like the king.

Rowan's throat felt like sandpaper. He had heard whispers about the king's many illegitimate children, the ones who dared to claim their heritage and the ones who dared not. The king had a penchant for abrupt endings.

Alastor, still smirking, bent down to meet the child's eye level. "Rat," he drawled, his tone a mixture of amusement and malice, "What do they call you?"

The girl's face remained impassive, her eyes fixed on Alastor with a disturbing stillness. "Daphne," she finally said, her voice a mere whisper.

Alastor's amusement rose, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Such a pretty name for a smelly rat," he chuckled.

Daphne stared at him with a vacant expression. It was then that Alastor noticed a slight twitch in her left eye. It was a twitch that spoke not of fear, but of incredulous amusement. She was... bored. This small, thin creature was bored with his antics.

He found himself laughing harder. He had to admit, she was interesting. "So, Daphne," he continued, his laughter fading to a chuckle, "what do you want the most?"

Daphne's gaze flicked to a half-eaten loaf of stale bread lying in the corner, her expression unchanging. "Food."

Alastor's eyebrows shot up. He choked back a laugh. "Of course..." He coughed, trying to regain his composure. "That was a stupid question."

Daphne, thankfully, didn't react.

He cleared his throat, his voice regaining its usual silky tone. "Say, rat, I will give you all the food you want. So much you'll never go hungry. Well, since you're my daughter, you'll have more than just food." He paused, a shadow falling over his face. "But..."

Daphne’s head tilted slightly, her eyes locked on Alastor's as if anticipating his next words.

"...disobey me and I will kill you."

The child remained unfazed. The sound of crickets chirping filled the silence as if they too were unimpressed.

Rowan choked back a gasp. The girl was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.

Alastor raised an eyebrow, amused. "Or..." he continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "I will take away all your food."

Daphne's blank face finally cracked. She frowned, a tiny gasp escaping her lips.

It wasn't fear, Alastor realized, but genuine annoyance at the prospect of losing food. He found himself struggling to contain his amusement.

Rowan wanted to laugh, but his fear for his life restricted him desperately. The tension in the room was palpable, a mix of fear and absurdity that made it hard to breathe. The situation, bizarre as it was, was starting to amuse him.

Despite the darkness and the threat, there was something almost endearing about this strange father-daughter interaction.

“Fourteen years,” Alastor mused, tilting his head back and letting out a sigh. "Fourteen years of feeding a rat, and she still only cares about bread.” He ran a hand through his silvery-blue hair, the movement a familiar gesture of contemplation.

Fourteen years of meticulously crafted meals, a personal library that rivalled the royal one, and enough silken gowns to clothe a small village. Yet, Daphne remained a constant. A fascinating, unchanging constant.

The King, however, was not so unchanging.

Alastor, found himself growing weary of the constant reminders of his own mortality, reflected in his daughter’s impassive gaze. He had managed to evade the pressures of a royal heir for years, but the whispers in the court, the murmurs of a future king, were growing louder with every passing day.

The nobles, ever eager to secure their own power, were now clamouring for Daphne’s debutante ball. The event, a traditional spectacle in Renara, was a breeding ground for alliances and political manoeuvring. The thought of Daphne, with her unnerving detachment, being paraded before a throng of ambitious suitors filled Alastor with a peculiar sense of dread.

He had chosen Daphne, a pawn in his intricate game of power. He'd never intended to give her a real position, let alone the throne, but the nobles had pushed him into it. The fact that she was a perfect puppet, perfectly content with food and silence, was just a bonus. But now the ball loomed, and he couldn't ignore it.

He was a king, the king of Renara, and he was being tormented by a debutante ball.

Inside the opulent throne room, Alastor sat on his throne, a picture of brooding annoyance. He drummed his fingers against the armrest, his midnight blue eyes narrowed as he stared at the intricate tapestries depicting scenes of past victories and royal lineage. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a reminder of the looming debutante ball.

“Tch,” he muttered, the sound echoing through the cavernous hall.

Rowan, standing rigidly by the entrance, remained silent, having learned the art of interpreting Alastor’s tch-ing. He had grown used to the king's pronouncements, no matter how absurd. A feat he achieved through years of constant vigilance and, surprisingly, Daphne's influence.

“Why must they insist on this ridiculous debutante ball?” he grumbled, his voice dripping with irritation. “It’s as if they believe my daughter is some prize pig at a county fair.” He paused, glancing at the ornate mirror that reflected his scowling visage. “And what’s worse, they want to pair her off with one of their insufferable sons.”

“I think we should ask Princess Daphne herself, Your Majesty,” Rowan finally said, his voice devoid of any emotion. He was no longer the flustered captain, but an observant, detached figure who had learned the art of staying out of the king’s way.

Alastor let out a sharp, humourless laugh. "You think I haven't considered that? Daphne will do exactly what she's always done: ignore the question, eat an entire loaf of bread, and then look at me with a vacant stare."

Rowan, however, was unfazed. "Your Majesty, I believe, you have yet to truly ask her what she wants."

Alastor looked at Rowan with a raised eyebrow. "And you think that will change anything? What do you think she'll say? 'Oh, please, dear Father, throw a lavish ball so I can be paraded around like a prize cow'? Don't be absurd, Rowan."

Rowan's lips slightly twitched before he replied, "Your Majesty, I believe she might surprise you."

Alastor, intrigued by Rowan's steadfastness, paused for a moment. He considered the situation. Daphne, despite being his daughter, was a mystery. Even he, after years of observing her, couldn't fully decipher her. Maybe, just maybe, Rowan was right. Maybe she would surprise him. But the thought of her being paraded around like a prized cow… still made his stomach churn.

A wicked grin slowly spread across his face. "Very well," he said, his voice low and menacing, "we'll ask her. And if she says the same... well, then it's the dungeon for you, Rowan."

Rowan’s impassive expression remained as steady as a stone. “As you wish, Your Majesty.” His voice, however, held the faintest hint of amusement, making Alastor wonder if he was going mad.

Alastor rose from his throne and walked towards the door, his back straight, his head held high. "Let's see what our little rat has to say."

He knew Daphne wouldn’t be impressed with a debutante ball, she wouldn’t care for the prospect of being paraded before a gaggle of potential suitors. In fact, she’d likely view the whole thing as a colossal waste of time. But there was a part of him, a small, unexpected part, that hoped she would surprise him. He hoped she would show a glimmer of human emotion, a flicker of interest in something beyond food.

As he entered the grand ballroom, the scent of jasmine intensified, mingling with the intoxicating aroma of freshly baked pastries. He paused, his eyes scanning the room. Daphne was in her usual spot, seated at a table laden with delicacies. Her expression was impassive, her gaze fixed on a plate of exquisitely crafted chocolate cake.

Alastor took a deep breath and he didn't even know why. “Daphne,” he called, his voice as smooth as silk. “I need to speak with you.”

Daphne’s gaze shifted from her cake to him, a flicker of annoyance in her eyes. “I see,” she replied, her voice as flat as a stale loaf of bread.

Alastor stifled a groan. It seemed his little princess was just as predictable as ever.

"Your Highness," Rowan began, his voice carrying the practiced patience of a man who had spent fourteen years dealing with the most peculiar royals in history, "the nobles are requesting your debutante ball."

Daphne paused mid-bite, the chocolate cake hovering inches from her mouth. Her midnight-blue eyes flickered with what could only be described as mild inconvenience. "Hm?"

Alastor, seated nearby and twitching with barely contained irritation, muttered, "See? This is why I didn't want to ask her."

Rowan's lips twitched - the closest thing to a smile he'd allow himself in the king's presence. "Technically, Your Majesty, you haven't actually asked her anything."

The king shot him a look that would have reduced lesser men to ash. Rowan, however, had long since been immune to such glares.

Daphne finally spoke, her voice as flat as a windless sea. "Will there be food at this ball?"

The captain blinked. Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Is that seriously your only concern?" the king drawled.

"Yes," Daphne replied, returning to her cake with single-minded focus.

The irony was not lost on Alastor. He had once threatened to take away her food as a form of punishment, and now food was quite literally the only thing that could motivate his heir. The nobles' grand plans of political manipulation would ultimately be decided by the contents of the buffet table.

Daphne thoughtfully took a bite, her brow furrowing slightly. “The debutante ball... Isn't that the one you’ve been avoiding for three years?” she asked, her tone flat and matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather.

Alastor’s eye twitched, and he crossed his arms, his posture rigid. “It’s not just avoiding; it’s strategic. The nobles are relentless, and I refuse to let them use you as a pawn.”

“Isn’t that what you’ve done all along?” she countered, her voice devoid of any malice, yet laced with the sharpness of a well-honed blade.

Alastor's jaw dropped, and before he could process further, Daphne offered, completely sidestepping the conversation. "Would you like some cake, Father?"

Rowan coughed, disguising what was definitely a laugh.

"Rowan!" Alastor snapped.

"My apologies, Your Majesty," he replied, his face returning to its statue-like impassivity. "But the princess does have a point. Wouldn't you like some cake?"

Alastor stared at them both – his daughter, methodically enjoying her chocolate cake, and his captain, looking like the most professional statue in existence – and realized, not for the first time, that he had created something entirely unexpected.

A princess who cared more about perfectly baked pastries than royal protocols, and a captain who found endless amusement in their peculiar family dynamics.

"Fine," Alastor declared, a mix of resignation and amusement in his voice. "We'll host the ball. But try to look somewhat interested, Daphne. At least pretend you're not just there for the refreshments."

Daphne looked up, a dollop of cream decorating her chin. "I make no promises."

Rowan coughed again to hide his laugh. While, Alastor just shook his head.

"But, Father," Daphne mused, her voice as smooth as velvet, "I do not understand why this should bother you."

Alastor leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, a picture of royal exasperation. "Because I don't want to see you wasting time with some idiots," he replied, his tone dripping with disdain as he gestured vaguely toward the empty ballroom.

Daphne tilted her head, her expression as blank as a freshly painted canvas. "Then you just have to tell me not to?"

Alastor sighed, perhaps a bit theatrically. "Daphne, I doubt that is in your control. The nobles don't back down easily." He waved a hand dismissively, as if swatting away a particularly bothersome fly.

"Hmmm..." Daphne pondered, her brow furrowing slightly as she considered the implications of her father's words. It was a rare moment of contemplation, and Alastor couldn't help but wonder if she was actually processing the situation or merely contemplating her next bite of cake.

Rowan, standing nearby with the poise of a statue, remained silent, his eyes flicking between the two royals. He had learned long ago that sometimes the best course of action was to let the king and princess navigate their peculiar dynamic without interference.

"Daphne?" Alastor prompted, his voice tinged with curiosity.

"Do not worry about it," she replied, waving a dismissive hand as if shooing away a pesky insect. "I will handle it," she mumbled, her gaze shifting to the raspberry tarts. "Now, those tarts are exquisite, Father; you might want to try them." She gestured toward a platter overflowing with delicate pastries, their golden crusts glistening under the ballroom's chandeliers.

Alastor couldn't help but smile resignedly as he picked up a tart, its flaky exterior crumbling slightly in his fingers. "I can never tell what's going on in your mind," he admitted, taking a cautious bite. The explosion of flavor was unexpected, and he raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"You too, Rowan," Daphne added, turning to the captain, who was watching the exchange with a bemused expression.

Rowan smiled warmly, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he sat down. "As you wish, Your Highness," he replied, reaching for a tart of his own. "I find it quite refreshing to be in the presence of such culinary delights rather than the usual courtly nonsense."

Alastor chuckled, the tension in the air dissipating like mist in the morning sun.

Some things, it seemed, never changed.