The royal study was a sanctuary of order, meticulously arranged scrolls and pristine documents reflecting King Alastor's obsessive nature. That is, until the moment a servant timidly approached with a small, folded note.
Alastor's midnight-blue eyes scanned the note, his expression morphing from regal indifference to pure, unadulterated bewilderment. The transformation was so dramatic that Rowan momentarily wondered if the king had been struck by lightning.
"She is what?!" Alastor's voice cracked, a rare moment of undignified surprise.
Rowan, who had been standing nearby, looked up from his own thoughts, blinking in confusion. "Your Majesty?" His brow furrowed, trying to decipher the king's sudden shift. "What's the matter?"
Alastor blinked, processing the implications of the note. "Wait a minute..." His expression shifted from bewilderment to dawning realization, and without another word, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, urgently.
Rowan, caught off guard, hurried after him, his boots echoing against the polished marble floor.
"Your Majesty," he called, his voice a mixture of concern and resignation, "might I inquire what has caused such... dramatic movement?"
Alastor waved a hand dismissively. "Not now, Rowan," he muttered, his eyes blazing with a mixture of irritation and something else that looked suspiciously like barely contained panic.
Bursting into the guest room, Alastor's dramatic entrance was met with the most serene scene imaginable. Hale De Fae sat elegantly on the sofa, her light orange eyes reminiscent of a sunset gleaming with amusement.
She was sipping tea.
Sipping tea as if she'd been doing so in this exact spot for centuries, completely unbothered by the hurricane that had just entered the room.
"YOU CREEPY WOMAN!" Alastor exploded. "People inform before they come, not after!"
Hale's response was to raise an elegant eyebrow and offer the most innocent smile possible. "Allie!" she chirped, using the nickname that would make any other being tremble, "I see you're still the same kitten."
Rowan, finally catching up, skidded to a stop beside Alastor. His eyes widened as he took in the scene, and he chuckled softly, realizing the source of Alastor's earlier shock.
Alastor's eye twitched. Being called "Allie" in front of his most trusted captain was possibly worse than any diplomatic incident he could imagine.
"You," he said, jabbing a finger at Hale as he sat down opposite her, "just can't do things normally, can you?"
Hale delicately placed her teacup down, the porcelain making the softest 'clink' against the saucer - a sound that somehow managed to communicate both elegance and mild threat. "How could one not arrive hastily after receiving your charming invitation?"
"Precisely because I hoped you would be as busy as always to not come," Alastor replied as he rubbed his temples, trying to massage the impending headache away.
"Interestingly," Hale leaned forward, her dark blue hair cascading like a midnight waterfall, "I used your letter as an excuse to elude the said duties."
A moment of stunned silence followed. Rowan could almost see the invisible thought bubbles forming above Alastor's head: 'I've created my own trap.'
Hale's smile could have disarmed entire armies. "How is my baby doing?" she asked, her tone shifting to something softer, more maternal. "It's been like what? Three weeks since I saw him?"
"Three YEARS, Hale," Alastor corrected, his voice as flat as a windless sea. "You haven't seen him in three years."
The room seemed to hold its breath. Rowan glanced between the two, feeling like an unwilling audience at a particularly awkward family reunion.
Hale, however, looked completely unbothered. "Details, darling," she chirped, "mere details," dismissing the technicality as if three years were merely a blink in the grand scheme of things. "Time flies when you're—" she paused dramatically, "—being fabulous."
Alastor looked like he was considering whether diplomatic immunity would cover throwing a fairy queen out of the window.
Hale, seemingly lost in her own world, mumbled to herself, "Time is but a construct for lesser beings."
Alastor's ears, despite her soft mumbling, caught every word. "Lesser beings..." he repeated slowly, dangerously, "like mothers who forget their children exist?"
Hale's gaze sharpened, indignantly, "Am I hearing this from the father who calls his own daughter a rat?"
Alastor's eye twitched. Just. One. Precise. Twitch. He leaned back in his chair, attempting to regain his composure.
Rowan, sensing an impending royal explosion, quietly took a step back, Positioning himself near the door as if ready to make a hasty exit should the need arise.
"You," he began, his voice dripping with exaggerated patience, "have the audacity to criticize my parenting?"
Hale's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Calling your daughter a rat is hardly winning Father of the Year, darling."
Rowan, still standing at a strategic distance, found himself caught between professional stoicism and barely suppressed amusement. His lips twitched, threatening to betray a smile.
"She likes being called a rat," Alastor defended, his argument sounding more ridiculous with each word. "She finds it... endearing."
Hale's eyebrow arched so high it could have touched the ceiling. "Endearing? A rat?"
Rowan couldn't help it. A snort escaped.
Both Hale and Alastor turned to look at him.
He immediately assumed the most professional stance possible, eyes fixed on an imaginary point in the distance, looking like a perfectly polished statue.
"Anyway," Hale continued, as if nothing had happened, "I'm here for the ball. And to see my children."
Alastor's eye twitched again. "Children?"
"Jazl and Daphne, of course," she said, as if discussing the weather.
The room's temperature seemed to drop several degrees.
Rowan took another strategic step back.