"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.