"…The Mandalorian Neo-Crusaders have launched a brutal attack on the Wookiee homeworld of Kashyyyk. Their primary target: the Shyyyo's Heart Tribe. The tribe, which remains fiercely independent, has been struck with heavy casualties. Reports are unclear, but it is confirmed that the attack has caused widespread devastation..."
Kuhbee's heart dropped into his stomach. His fur bristled with fear and anger. The Shyyyo's Heart Tribe—his tribe. He had been exiled from the clan months ago, cast out for a misunderstanding which seemed far less important to him now. But they were his people. His family, his brothers and sisters, still lived on Kashyyyk. What if they were under attack right now? What if his parents—his mother—had been caught in the crossfire? His mind spun in a haze of panic. He tried to focus, but all he could hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat, echoing in his ears.
The other young padawans were scattered around the room, engaged in their own quiet conversations or meditative practices, unaware of the storm brewing inside Kuhbee. His fingers, thick with Wookiee fur, clenched and unclenched around the edge of the table. His claws scraped against the surface, leaving deep gouges in the wood. His breathing grew more erratic.
The pain in his chest was unbearable. He needed to do something—anything. He couldn't sit there, helpless, waiting for news that might never come. Kuhbee let out a guttural, anguished roar that rattled the walls of the common room, his primal instincts taking over. The tables flew into the air with a loud crash, sending chairs scattering as if they were toys. Padawans screamed and scrambled for cover, their faces filled with terror. A few tried to reach out, their hands trembling, but Kuhbee was beyond control.
"Kuhbee!" One of the padawans shouted in fear, his voice cracking. "We need help!"
Within moments, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway, and several Jedi Knights arrived, their lightsabers already ignited. They stood back, wary of the Wookiee's immense size and strength. The room was in chaos, and it was clear that Kuhbee's mind had given way to sheer panic and fury.
"Calm him down," one of the knights said, his voice firm.
With swift precision, one of the Jedi threw a sedative dart, striking Kuhbee in the side of his neck. The young Wookiee gasped, his muscles locking up, and his vision began to blur. His roar softened to a guttural whimper as he fell to his knees, the weight of his emotions crashing down on him like a tidal wave. His head hung low, and his fur trembled.
The Jedi Knights surrounded him, their expressions a mixture of concern and restraint. Kuhbee could feel the effects of the sedative taking hold, but the haze in his mind only deepened. The anger, the worry, the fear for his tribe—they still burned within him, but his body refused to cooperate. His face contorted with the weight of his grief.
His heart ached for Kashyyyk, for his people. The loss of his family was a shadow hanging over him. He had been exiled, yes, but that didn't mean he had stopped caring. If anything, the distance had only sharpened his love for his tribe. But what if they were gone? What if it was too late?
As the sedative worked its magic, Kuhbee slowly slumped to the floor, tears mixing with the fur on his face. His mind felt like it was in a haze of grief and anger, too much to process at once. He was no longer the youngling who had been cast aside. He was a Wookiee, a son of Kashyyyk, and right now, he was broken.
