Beneath the jagged ridges of the Eryndal Heights, where sunlight never touches and rivers vanish into stone, lies the vast underrealm of the Nythrae. They call it Veythar, a labyrinth of caverns and chasms said to stretch for leagues in every direction. Though most of its halls remain unseen, the Nythrae’s existence is no longer dismissed as myth. On rare occasions they emerge to trade — blades honed in subterranean forges, cloaks of cavern-silk that shimmer like oil on water, or crystals drawn from hidden veins. In such moments, fragments of truth escape: whispers of immense cities carved in the dark, and of other beings who share their depths.

The Nythrae are a sundered branch of the Sylthae, shaped by countless generations in the shadows. Their eyes gleam pale in the dark, their steps silent as water through stone. Outsiders from the surface — whom they scornfully call the Deynar — are forbidden in Veythar. The law is absolute: trespassers are slain without hesitation, not from cruelty, but from the unyielding need to guard their realm.

Warriors and assassins by nature, the Nythrae devote their mastery of stealth and steel not to conquest of the world above, but to the endless rivalries within their own houses. Assassinations, vendettas, and shifting alliances are the true politics of Veythar. To outsiders, they appear as a unified shadow; within, their blades are forever turned upon one another.

Yet even in secrecy, the Nythrae endure. Their artisans carve halls and bridges from living stone, their voices weave laments that echo through caverns for hours, and their forges burn in silence beneath the mountains. To the Deynar they remain an enigma — part rumor, part reality. But to themselves, they are the children of shadow, guardians of Veythar, and heirs to a realm the surface will never claim.