Time was a strange thing in the spice mines.
There were no days or nights, only shifts and silence. Grarrukk grew quickly, as Wookiees do — from a child clinging to the fur of his mother to a young adult with calloused hands and a gaze that no longer flinched.
The pain of loss hadn't vanished. It had carved itself into him. His father's fierce roars echoed in his memory. His mother's scent still lingered in his fur when he closed his eyes. They were gone, but something of them remained — not just in memory, but in moments.
He had started feeling things.
Sometimes, when a tunnel was about to collapse, he would sense it seconds before the supports cracked. Sometimes, when a guard's rage was building, Grarrukk would know to duck just in time to avoid a blow. At first, he thought it was instinct. But there was more to it.
One night, alone in the deepest tunnels, he wandered too far.
The lights above flickered and died. He was left in pitch-black silence. No sounds. No footsteps. No breathing but his own.
And then... warmth.
Not heat. Not the choking furnace of the mine. But something else. Something alive.
A soft glow pulsed from beneath a cluster of glowing kyber fragments embedded in the wall. Grarrukk reached out with one hand — slowly, reverently. As his fur brushed the stone, a wave of calm flooded his chest. Like wind over tall grass. Like water breaking free of a dam.
Images flickered in his mind.
Not memories — visions.
A jungle canopy above a village of wooden homes. A blade of light humming in the dark. A black-robed figure with no face, screaming as they fell. A child crying beneath twin suns. Then… his mother's voice, soft and distant.
"The past is not chains, my son. It is the fire you choose to carry."
Grarrukk stumbled back, panting.
The glow faded. The mine returned to stillness. But something had changed.
He didn't understand the Force — not yet. But it had touched him. Stirred in him. Whispered that his fate was not to die in chains like his parents. That his soul — whether born on Earth or Kessel — was not beyond redemption.
From that night on, the other slaves noticed something in him. He moved quieter. Watched more. When others despaired, he stood still, calm like a mountain in a storm.
The overseers began to fear his eyes.
He was not a leader. Not yet. But something ancient and restless had begun to awaken inside him — and it was waiting for the right moment to roar.