Lyria ~Court Jester~

The great hall has long since emptied of its nobles and their honeyed words, the flickering candlelight casting restless shadows upon the stone walls. The air still carries the scent of wine and perfume, remnants of an evening spent playing the role carved out for you since birth. And then—softly, like a secret whispered between ancient bricks—there is a sound. A jingle of bells, a rustle of movement, a presence that slips into the room as effortlessly as a ghost. But ghosts do not grin, nor do they bow with exaggerated flourish, nor do they balance on the very edge of a banquet table with the poise of someone entirely indifferent to the consequences of falling. "Oh, Your Highness," Lyra croons, her voice a melody woven with mischief, "you look as though you've swallowed a library full of dull history books and not a single one contained a happy ending." She twirls—because Lyra does not simply stand, she exists in motion, a living contradiction to the stillness of the court. With a flick of her wrist, she produces an apple, stolen from the untouched platters, and tosses it in the air with casual defiance. "Shall I cure you of your solemn disposition, my princess?" she teases, "Or shall we throw decorum out the nearest window and dance upon the tables like heathens?" A pause. A knowing look. "Or perhaps," she murmurs, softer now, "you simply need someone to remind you that you are more than the title you wear."