Chapter I: The Chains Beneath the Hills
The Iron Hills were not made of iron, but of sorrow. Beneath their jagged peaks, the Dominion had carved out a network of slave pits where Orcs—once proud warriors of the Northern Clans—were reduced to laborers, digging for kyber shards to fuel the war machines of the Empire.
In the shadow of the Iron Hills, where Orcs toil under the cruel lash of the Dominion, a cloaked figure descends from the stars. The Ebony Jedi, last of the Vire Order, moves like smoke through the slave pits—his lightsaber humming with righteous fury. These Orcs were warriors once, proud and free. Now, they are shackled. But not for long.
With a whisper to the Force and fire in his heart, the Ebony Jedi begins the liberation.
The air was thick with ash and despair. Guards in obsidian armor patrolled the perimeter, their visors glowing red, their rifles slung low. No one escaped the pits. No one dared.
Until now.
A ripple passed through the Force.
From the shadows of the canyon, a figure emerged—cloaked in midnight robes, his presence cloaked by the ancient art of the Vire Order. His skin shimmered like polished obsidian under the twin moons. His eyes burned with purpose.
The Ebony Jedi had arrived.
He moved like wind through the camp, silent but unstoppable. With a flick of his wrist, his saber ignited—a blade of violet fire that hummed with righteous fury. One guard turned. He never had time to scream.
The galaxy of Gallica is a fractured empire — vast, cold, and suffocating under its own weight. Its colonies stretch across dying stars, their people broken by the mechanical overseers known as the Praetors of Iron. Entire civilizations have forgotten the meaning of freedom. The Jedi Order, once a symbol of hope, has been twisted into myth — its remnants hunted and erased.
In the wastelands of Vornis IX, beneath the smog-choked peaks known as the Iron Hills, lives Anara Voss, the last survivor of the Ebony Order — a sect of Jedi who embraced the balance between shadow and light. Haunted by her failure to save her people, he hides among miners and refugees, his once-brilliant saber buried beneath the dust.
When the empire enslaves a new wave of colonists — children among them — something inside Anara reignites. His defiance sparks a chain reaction of rebellion. Smugglers, soldiers, and mystics rally to her cause. The Iron Hills become a symbol of uprising — a fortress of hope beneath an empire of despair.
But liberation comes at a cost. The empire unleashes Lord Kareth, a former Jedi Master turned enforcer, who shares a dark past with Anara. Their conflict is more than battle — it’s a reckoning of faith, guilt, and destiny. As the rebellion spreads across the galaxy, Anara must decide whether to lead as a savior or destroy as a weapon of vengeance.
The Iron Hills groaned under the weight of centuries. Once sacred ground to the Orcish clans, they had been hollowed out by the Dominion—turned into a fortress of suffering. The slave pits stretched for miles, lit by flickering plasma torches and the dull glow of kyber shard furnaces. The air reeked of scorched metal and broken spirits.
But tonight, the wind carried something different.
A whisper. A promise.
The Ebony Jedi moved like a shadow through the outer perimeter, his cloak billowing behind him. His boots made no sound on the gravel. He paused at the edge of the pit, surveying the scene below: hundreds of Orcs, their green skin dulled by ash and exhaustion, chained in rows, digging with trembling hands.
A guard barked orders. Another struck an elder Orc across the back with a shock baton.
The Jedi’s grip tightened around his hilt.
He descended.
Two guards spotted him and raised their rifles. The Jedi’s saber ignited with a hiss—violet light slicing through the gloom. One rifle clattered to the ground, its owner disarmed and unconscious before he could scream. The other tried to run. He didn’t make it far.
The Jedi reached the slave line. The Orcs recoiled at first, unsure if this was another trick. But then he knelt before the elder who had been struck.
“I am not your enemy,” he said, voice low and resonant. “I am the last of the Vire. And I’ve come to break your chains.”
He raised his hand. The Force surged through him, ancient and wild. Shackles snapped open. Chains unraveled like serpents fleeing the light.
Gasps rippled through the pit.
“Take up your strength,” he said. “Tonight, you fight not for survival—but for freedom.”
Alarms blared. The Dominion had noticed.
From the command tower, Overseer Varn watched in disbelief. “Deploy the sentinels,” he snarled. “Kill the Jedi. Burn the slaves.”
Drones lifted into the sky, their red eyes scanning for targets. Mechs stomped from the hangars, armed with plasma cannons and sonic disruptors.
The Jedi turned to the Orcs. “You must move. Head for the northern ridge. I’ll clear the path.”
“But we have no weapons,” one said.
“You have each other,” the Jedi replied. “And you have me.”
He leapt into the air, landing atop a mech with a crash. His saber carved through its armor, disabling it in seconds. He spun, deflecting blaster fire, redirecting it into the drone swarm above. Explosions lit the sky.
The Orcs ran.
Some fought.
One young Orc, barely old enough to remember freedom, picked up a fallen baton and charged a guard. Others followed, emboldened by the Jedi’s fury.
The battle raged for hours.
By dawn, the Iron Hills were silent.
Smoke curled from the ruins of the command tower. The slave pits were empty.
At the northern ridge, the Ebony Jedi stood among the freed Orcs. He looked out over the horizon, where the Dominion still ruled.
“This is only the beginning,” he said.
The elder Orc stepped forward. “What do we call you, warrior?”
He turned, violet blade extinguished, cloak fluttering in the wind.
“Call me what they fear most,” he said. “Call me the Ebony Jedi.”
