"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.