It began with silence.
Not the usual kind — the tired quiet that settled over the mines after a hard shift. No, this silence was different. Tense. Like the air itself was holding its breath.
Grarrukk sat in the corner of the holding cell, his back against the cold durasteel wall. His fur was thick now, his arms strong years of labor. His eyes, darker. Sharper. He was no longer a child. Not quite a warrior. But the Force in him simmered like a pot left too long on the fire.
Then it happened.
A boom — deep and close — shook the floor beneath his feet. The lights flickered. Then another. Louder. A blaring alarm howled through the corridors. Red strobes bathed the walls in chaos.
The other Wookiees stirred, confused. Terrified. The older ones pulled the young behind them. Some whispered of earthquakes, of another collapse. Grarrukk didn't move. He knew this wasn't natural.
This was war.
Outside, blaster fire erupted. Screams followed. The barked commands of stormtroopers were answered with the sharp, deliberate fire of Rebel blasters. A klaxon screamed, and the scent of smoke crept into the cellblock.
Then the cell door blew inward.
Shrapnel scattered across the room. When the smoke cleared, a small figure stepped through — human, clad in scavenged armor, goggles over his eyes. Behind him, a pair of Twi'leks and a Mon Calamari fanned out, weapons raised.
"Get them out! Now!" the leader barked. "Liberate every damn cell!"
The prisoners stared, unsure. But Grarrukk stood.
Not in fear.
In purpose.
He walked forward slowly, towering over the rebels. One reached for their blaster, but the leader raised a hand.
"No," he said, eyes locked on Grarrukk. "That one's different."
Grarrukk met his gaze. He didn't speak — Wookiees rarely did, especially ones raised in cages. But the Force flowed between them like a silent current.
Within minutes, every slave in that block was unshackled. Wookiees, Twi'leks, even old Rodians with broken backs stumbled into the corridor, wide-eyed and uncertain. Some wept. Others howled.
Grarrukk didn't cry and he didn't cheer.
He found a fallen trooper, pried a vibro-baton from his corpse, and took up position at the front of the group.
When a squad of white-armored Imperials turned the corner, he was the first to charge.
The first to roar.
And the first to spill blood for something other than survival.
As the smoke cleared and the Rebel shuttle lifted from the blasted sands of Kessel, Grarrukk stood at the boarding ramp, staring down at the prison that had raised and broken him.
His life as a slave was over.
But freedom, he knew, came with a new kind of chain: