Chapter I: The Ebony Jedi: Chains of the Iron Hills
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.”
