Nyssara was born into Clan Vethrisa, one of the Dathomiri lineages devoted to the weaving of the Thread, a living tapestry of bloodlines, prophecies, and dark magick. Her mother, Morrayne Vethrisa, was a Vessel, chosen to bear children for the clan’s sacred breeding of power. Her father, Dren Tal, was a Knot, a Nightbrother taken for his strength and cast aside once his purpose was fulfilled. Nyssara never knew him beyond faint memories and her mother’s guarded silence.
She grew up among smoke and song, learning the rituals of ichor and flame. Her mother taught her patience, restraint, and reverence for the Thread that bound all things. From her earliest years, Nyssara was groomed to become a Vessel herself, another link in the endless chain of prophecy that promised the coming of the Final Weave. The clan’s world revolved around that belief, and Nyssara’s faith in it was absolute.
That faith died the night the fires turned blue.
The attack came without warning. One moment, the air was filled with chants and incense. The next, screams echoed through the village, and green fire gave way to the searing light of a lightsaber. He came through the mist like a vision of judgment, cutting through Sister after Sister as though their magicks meant nothing. His blade glowed bright against the night, his face half-lit, and the world itself seemed to tremble around him.
Morrayne moved to shield her before Nyssara could think. The light pierced her chest, its glow reflecting in her daughter’s eyes. Morrayne’s body jerked once before she fell, her blood steaming against the dirt. Nyssara caught her as she crumpled, felt the life drain away in her arms while the intruder’s shadow passed over them. The man’s gaze flicked toward her only for a heartbeat, unreadable and cold, before he moved on through the smoke.
When the chaos finally quieted, the world was still. The pyres had burned out. The air reeked of ichor and death. Nyssara remained where she knelt, clutching her mother’s body against her, the silence pressing in until it felt suffocating. She could not scream. She could not cry. She simply stayed there, numb and trembling, while the ashes of her clan drifted down like snow.
By the time dawn touched Dathomir’s sky, the girl who had once followed the Thread was gone. What rose in her place was something else. Grief turned to fury, and that fury hollowed her until only one thing remained: The memory of blue fire, and the face of the man who took everything from her.
