The Chorus Of A Raven | ONC2025

"Prince Darick would like to offer you a place here," Mrs Baxter had said the previous night when Rosalie had refused to attend a meeting with him and had asked the head housekeeper to go in her place, "to be a part of this world. In return, you will have shelter, a home. You must accept, Rosalie. I could not bear to see you leave and live that way of life, nor could Liliana. My daughter is quite taken with you."

It was a surprising conundrum to be given and a gracious one at that. Did Rosalie return to a life alone on the streets of Crausley Sands? Or commit to a life of servitude?

At the time she was quite taken aback, but Mrs Baxter had relayed the Prince would grant her space to give it some serious consideration.

Whilst she pondered her predicament, Rosalie was treated to the most exquisite vista.

The Prince's mansion was situated in the rural setting of Crausley Sands, away from the coastal front and the bustling streets. Its bold structure sat on a vast square concrete platform, bordered by a lake and rolling hills. Striking green foliage, neatly pruned, adorned the balcony wall. Well, it was what Rosalie imagined it would look like if there wasn't a cloak of snow drowning it. Having said that, the air was carrying a slither of humidity and she noticed the hidden terrain peeking through tiny patches of melting snow.

To be able to witness the view everyday, she could not refute the luxuries his offer provided. Most prominently, Rosalie would not need to worry about the dangers the night held in the streets of Crausley, for a woman of her situation, if she were to remain at the royal residence.

"It is truly a sight to behold, is it not?"

It was as though her thoughts of the Prince had conjured his physical presence. Whirling around to face him, Rosalie bent her knees and fanned out the daffodil-yellow dress - which had been left on her bed that morning - in a curtsying greeting. Prince Darick stood at her side gazing out where her eyes had been moments before. He was wearing a fine midnight blue ensemble; a waistcoat covered in paisley silk and a tailcoat with a glossy collar.

It was the only time she had come face to face with him since her first day at the mansion. For the majority of the time she had chosen to stay in the comfortable haven of her room, yet seeing the Prince in the flesh was a welcoming sight. His eyes were as blue as the crystal clear waters of the coast, his chestnut curls were swept back, tickling the nape of his neck and the hair gracing his upper lip and cascading over his chin was neatly groomed.

"Please, there is no need. Just as Mrs Baxter sneers hearing her family name, I do not welcome such a formal salute." It was said with no malice nor with scornful dismissal, rather... a polite frustration?

"Pardon me, your highness, but you are about to be king. Are you going to inform all of Varkanord of your preference?" There was a slight teasing tone to her voice, which awakened a smile to pull at the corners of Darick's mouth.

"Perhaps not," he admitted, "instead, how about you inform me of your family name?"

A tense frown creased her brow. How did she begin to tell him she had no recollection of who she was? As Rosalie saw it, there were two roads she could travel down; one: fabricate a story and persuade him of the persona she had adopted in order to at least give herself some ounce of an identity, or two: admit her circumstances, praying he does not investigate too deeply into how she came to be destitute. The latter was a road she longed to navigate away from if she could help it. Nonetheless, giving him part truth was also not lying.

There were some parts of her life, those she could remember, that she wished would stay in the shadows; locked away as a prisoner in the darkness.

Prince Darick waited patiently for her reply, merely accommodating her silent battle.

"I do not know my family name," Rosalie simply declared, not elaborating any further and Darick seemed to accept that. He spoke no more of the matter, which was suspiciously unexpected.

"Well then, I will simply call you Rosalie." And there was that smile again, curved into his cheekbones, sincere and amenable.

In an instant, Rosalie was overcome with the need to make a swift retreat back into the mansion. Standing opposite the man with penetrating blues blazing through her startled hazel spheres was rousing a feeling unknown to her. Jittery wings flapped around her stomach.

"I... I... may I be excused?" She stuttered, rapidly diverting her gaze and nervously curling a thread of her now soft - as opposed to the scatty mess it was - hair around her ear.

Nodding once, Darick responded, "of course."

As she began to take her leave, Rosalie halted promptly by the doorway.

"I haven't forgotten about your kind offer, your highness," she declared, "I shall have an answer for you by this evening."

"I sincerely hope you make the right decision, Rosalie." Was his reply before returning back to stare upon the land he called home.

Skipping up the wooden, spiralling staircase, Rosalie came to pass the boudoir of the Prince and his wife, Francine, whom she still hadn't clapped eyes on during the time she had stayed. Why would she? It wasn't as though Madam Francine would have taken it upon herself to immerse herself in the company of a vagrant. Then again, why did Prince Darick? To prove to himself and others he wasn't a reflection of his late father?

As Rosalie came to stroll by the open threshold, her peripheral vision caught the glimpse of a beautifully ornate mirror poised at the corner of the room. Its vintage silver oval-shaped shell was fringed by metallic sculptured ripples encompassing violet and coral jewels.

Her transfixed hazel scrutiny, however, had gravitated to the tail of its frame where an enlarged jewel was nestled. Rosalie was not so lost to its splendour to be aware of the Raven landing upon the windowsill outside, nor the timid pulse of the obsidian.

It was then Rosalie knew - she was there for a reason and she was intent on finding out what that reason was.