Homeless girl, Rosalie, is found on the cold streets of Crausley Sands with nothing but the clothes on her back and a black obsidian stone key around her neck, having no memory of who gave it to her.
When Rosalie is taken in by none other than Princ...
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Rosalie trudged along the snow covered streets of Crausley Sands; icy teeth biting through the soles of her torn boots which had grown too tight for her teenage feet.
She dared not rest, for if she were to give herself even a moment of respite, she feared she would fall victim to the arctic weather and never wake. It was a struggle placing one foot in front of the other in her perseverance, but Rosalie was determined to carry on. She had not eaten in a day or two and the weakness she felt from the lack of food was in itself draining.
Rosalie had encountered numerous passers by, each one either ignoring her existence or devouring her with a look of repulsion.
But all may not be lost.
"Excuse me, miss." Rosalie began, politely addressing the well-dressed lady strolling in her direction. "Would you be able to spare some copper?"
The lady huffed and simply shook her head. "No, I will not be so obliging, child."
"Please, miss, I am very hungry." Rosalie's mouth quivered in the rising wind; the harsh breeze slapping against her dry and chapped lips.
"I am certain you will find something, your kind always does in the end."
With that sarcasm and honing in on the tittle-tattle suggesting the homeless folk merely pretend they have no shelter, the lady's pace accelerated and Rosalie was desperate enough to run after her, to fall at her feet and beg for her assistance. If only she had the energy to commit to such a task.
Soon enough the day began to fall and the night rose bringing with it a cruel chill that cut across the pallid flesh of her cheeks. Tears started to well at the bottom of her lids, but Rosalie blinked them away. To let them flow would signify her surrender to an inevitable fate - a lonely death in a blanket of snow.
Huddling into what scrap of material she had covering her shivering frame, she pushed on, passing the lifeless stalls and avoiding the streets where taverns were filled with intoxicated and rumbustious locals.
The further she went, noise filtered down into an eerie, yet comforting, silence, other than the sounds of winter. Tiredness shrouded her in an enticing aura and in its haven of rest and safety, Rosalie was tempted to accept the offer of peace. A temptation so powerful, she could not decline its invitation.
Her knees were the first to give way; naked legs met the white ground, ensnaring them in its trap of numbness, spreading through her like a virus.
Rosalie remained kneeled for a short while before her body fell also and she lay there gazing up at the starry sky with heavy hazel eyes.
Weaker and weaker her eyelids became and Rosalie's will to fight against the tide was thwarted. Prior to her descent into the dark, the last thing she saw were the black beating wings of a raven.
*
It was as though she was being carried by the very air she breathed. Rosalie's body was weightless, floating in a serene bubble of haziness. However, distorted voices ricocheted off the barrier. Concern was recognisable in their muffled tones.
"Where on earth did you find her, Mrs Baxter?"
A man's gruff voice filled her ears. It was a voice she had heard many times before, but never in such close proximity.
"On the streets, your highness," Mrs Baxter - Rosalie assumed - replied, "some drunken fools didn't even acknowledge her distress."
A hiss through tightly clenched teeth rang in her ears and a blast of rapid breath cast upon her neck. "It pains me to see the men of Crausley mirror the mannerisms of my father."
"It is because you are nothing like your father, your highness. You have a heart. You care and respect all beings of Varkanord, human and unearthling."
Mrs Baxter's compliment was met with quietness, the conversation seemingly reaching its peak.
Rosalie was so lost in their exchange, she did not detect the softness of warm blankets placed delicately over her, nor the comfort of the bed mattress pressed snuggly against her spine. Her dithering body was full of gratitude for the heated embrace.
Gentle hands pulled the blanket up to Rosalie's neck, cocooning her protectively from the aftershock of the outside. A shaky moan escaped her bloody and blistered lips.
"I shall ask Stanley to rustle up some soup once she awakes. We also need to get some fluids into her." Mrs Baxter's authoritativeness sliced through the stillness, then a rustle of material followed by the clink of heels on the wooden floor began to retreat. "We should allow her to rest for now, Prince Darick."
Battling against the depths of the fever threatening to pull her under the surface, Rosalie was alerted to the looming presence of the Prince, hearing his weight shift closer and closer.
"There seems to be a key hanging around her neck. An odd choice for a pendant, don't you think, Mrs Baxter?"
A tired sigh travelled from the doorway. "Please, your highness, leave her be. It is not our place to judge the attire of others, particularly if it is something she holds very dear."
Rosalie sensed the intensity of Prince Darick's stare raining down on her like the strike of a thunderbolt; his inquisitive orbs pierced their way through her mind, searching for any hidden clues to who she was and where she came from.
If only I could reveal my truth.
And the truth was, Rosalie could not remember where she came from or even her family name. She had absolute certainty her name was 'Rosalie'. The relentless dreams of being summoned certified her identity in that respect.
As for the key with a crescent moon-shaped hand cradling a minuscule black obsidian gemstone - she had no recollection of who bestowed her with such beauty. To be gifted with an intricate and perfected treasure, the benefactor must have felt love and care towards her. Was it given to her by a relative? If so, the key should solely warrant a response other than it awakening goosebumps to rise on her arms, or the hairs on the back of her neck to stand to attention as though they were armed soldiers saluting their superior.
Once Rosalie was finally left alone in an unfamiliar room, her mind raced and one question rattled against the walls of her skull: why did the key feel like a painful burden to carry?
