Nitya Xeraic
Character
The archives had always been one of Nitya's favorite places within the enclave.
Not because they were quiet, though they usually were. Not because they held knowledge, though there was enough knowledge contained within their stone walls to occupy several lifetimes. She loved them because they carried memory. Not the cold memory of datapads and historical records alone, but the living memory of generations. Every shelf, every preserved artifact, every handwritten journal represented someone who had stood beneath Dathomir's skies and believed their experiences were worth preserving for those who came after.
For someone who had spent all of her life away from Dathomir, there was comfort in that.
The late afternoon light filtered through the narrow windows high above, casting long shafts of gold across the ancient stone floor. Dust drifted lazily through the beams while silence settled comfortably throughout the vast chamber. The archives possessed a stillness that felt earned rather than enforced, the kind that came from centuries of people gathering knowledge in one place and trusting it to endure.
Nitya sat cross-legged at one of the larger tables near the center of the room, surrounded by a small collection of datapads and old records Dreidi had recommended. Some spoke of ancient clan migrations. Others detailed long-forgotten magical practices that had faded from common use centuries ago. One particularly dense text appeared to be arguing with another scholar who had been dead for nearly eight hundred years. She was beginning to suspect Dathomiri academics had always been remarkably stubborn.
A faint smile touched her lips as she carefully turned another page.
The past few weeks had given her more to think about than she had expected. Learning about Dathomir. Learning about the clan. Learning about aspects of herself she had never fully explored before. For most of her life, her heritage had existed as stories told by others. Something important, certainly, but distant. Now she found herself walking the halls her ancestors had once walked, studying their words, speaking with witches who carried traditions older than entire galactic governments.
It still felt strange sometimes—not unwelcome, merely unfamiliar in the way returning to a place you had only known through stories could be, as though each day revealed another piece of herself, she had never realized had been missing.
Her attention drifted briefly toward one of the nearby displays containing records associated with Clan Xeraic. The family seemed to leave their mark on nearly everything they touched. Dreidi most of all. Every conversation with her sister seemed to uncover another layer of history, another piece of knowledge, another connection stretching backward through centuries.
Which inevitably brought her thoughts toward another member of the family she had yet to properly know. Aileni.
She had heard stories. More than a few, in fact. Some from Dreidi. Others from passing conversations within the enclave. There was a certain inevitability to it. A young man carrying the Xeraic name while walking the path of a Jedi Shadow tended to attract attention whether he intended to or not.
Nitya knew pieces of his story, enough to understand that expectations followed him everywhere, but what she didn't know was the person beneath them. The thought lingered only briefly before she returned her attention to the text in front of her.
Outside, the evening wind whispered softly against the temple walls. Somewhere in the enclave, voices carried faintly through the distance before fading again. Life continued as it always had.
For the moment, the archives remained peaceful. And entirely unaware that one of the people Nitya had been quietly curious about was about to walk through its doors.
Aileni Ifor Xeraic
Not because they were quiet, though they usually were. Not because they held knowledge, though there was enough knowledge contained within their stone walls to occupy several lifetimes. She loved them because they carried memory. Not the cold memory of datapads and historical records alone, but the living memory of generations. Every shelf, every preserved artifact, every handwritten journal represented someone who had stood beneath Dathomir's skies and believed their experiences were worth preserving for those who came after.
For someone who had spent all of her life away from Dathomir, there was comfort in that.
The late afternoon light filtered through the narrow windows high above, casting long shafts of gold across the ancient stone floor. Dust drifted lazily through the beams while silence settled comfortably throughout the vast chamber. The archives possessed a stillness that felt earned rather than enforced, the kind that came from centuries of people gathering knowledge in one place and trusting it to endure.
Nitya sat cross-legged at one of the larger tables near the center of the room, surrounded by a small collection of datapads and old records Dreidi had recommended. Some spoke of ancient clan migrations. Others detailed long-forgotten magical practices that had faded from common use centuries ago. One particularly dense text appeared to be arguing with another scholar who had been dead for nearly eight hundred years. She was beginning to suspect Dathomiri academics had always been remarkably stubborn.
A faint smile touched her lips as she carefully turned another page.
The past few weeks had given her more to think about than she had expected. Learning about Dathomir. Learning about the clan. Learning about aspects of herself she had never fully explored before. For most of her life, her heritage had existed as stories told by others. Something important, certainly, but distant. Now she found herself walking the halls her ancestors had once walked, studying their words, speaking with witches who carried traditions older than entire galactic governments.
It still felt strange sometimes—not unwelcome, merely unfamiliar in the way returning to a place you had only known through stories could be, as though each day revealed another piece of herself, she had never realized had been missing.
Her attention drifted briefly toward one of the nearby displays containing records associated with Clan Xeraic. The family seemed to leave their mark on nearly everything they touched. Dreidi most of all. Every conversation with her sister seemed to uncover another layer of history, another piece of knowledge, another connection stretching backward through centuries.
Which inevitably brought her thoughts toward another member of the family she had yet to properly know. Aileni.
She had heard stories. More than a few, in fact. Some from Dreidi. Others from passing conversations within the enclave. There was a certain inevitability to it. A young man carrying the Xeraic name while walking the path of a Jedi Shadow tended to attract attention whether he intended to or not.
Nitya knew pieces of his story, enough to understand that expectations followed him everywhere, but what she didn't know was the person beneath them. The thought lingered only briefly before she returned her attention to the text in front of her.
Outside, the evening wind whispered softly against the temple walls. Somewhere in the enclave, voices carried faintly through the distance before fading again. Life continued as it always had.
For the moment, the archives remained peaceful. And entirely unaware that one of the people Nitya had been quietly curious about was about to walk through its doors.
Aileni Ifor Xeraic
