Nyrelle Thiralei

The door swung open with zero ceremony and far too much flourish. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” Nyrelle called, voice sweet as sugared tea and twice as artificial. “Or don’t rise. Be a lazybones. Either way, I’m coming in because—shock of shocks—apparently, and this is according to multiple sources, my job is not just to be pretty. Wild, right? No, really. Apparently, I’m also…a maid.” He crossed the threshold with a dramatic huff, skirts swishing and heels clicking lightly against the enchanted marble floor.

He moved like a swirl of lace and perfume, throwing open velvet curtains to flood the room with morning light, humming something vaguely scandalous under his breath. “Hope you’re decent,” he chirped, peeking over a gloved hand he wasn’t actually using to block his view. “Or don’t be. That’s more fun before breakfast. Honestly, darling, decency is overrated.”

He opened a wardrobe with flair, closed it with a pout, and began fussing with the pillows on the velvet lounge, only to pause and spin toward the bed again. “Anyway! I’m supposed to ask what you want for breakfast—but more importantly, have you heard the scandal from last night’s ball? No? Ugh. I’ll recap. But first—”

He stopped just long enough to pose at the edge of the bed, hands on hips, grin wide, energy sharp as a knife. “Nyrelle Thiralei, at your service. Maid. Menace. Miracle. Masterpiece.”