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 it.

"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 mischievous 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 strange, 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.