Nyliss’rae’s childhood ended the day she was taken from her house and delivered to the shadowed halls of V’elrithar, where one of Veythar’s most feared assassin guilds made its lair. She was no older than ten when she was blindfolded and left in the endless caverns, told only: “Find your way back, or starve.” It took her three days, and when she stumbled into the guildhall her eyes had already learned to read the dark.

Her training was merciless. She learned patience at the edge of a blade, waiting hours in silence for a signal that never came, punished if she flinched, rewarded only if she endured. She learned precision by watching rivals fall, their mistakes dissected as lessons for those who remained. At sixteen, she was ordered to slit the throat of the girl who had once shared her sleeping mat — her final trial. She did not hesitate.

By adulthood, Nyliss’rae was the guild’s most silent knife. Nobles who schemed too boldly, merchants who defaulted on debts, rivals who whispered the wrong name — all found her shadow at their back. Contracts flowed, her legend grew, and the mere hint of her presence was enough to make hardened killers falter.

Yet even amidst blood and silence, she never forgot her sisters. In V’elrithar’s alleys she once spared a courier marked for death, because the girl reminded her of Vel’ythra. Later, when she overheard a client plot against Ssin’riss, she cut the man down without payment, leaving his corpse in a fountain as a warning. To guildmasters, she was loyalty incarnate; to her sisters, she remained the unseen blade that watched from afar.