When the slavers dragged him into the palace, bound in chains, scalp bleeding from his most recent blow to the head, and sold him to the Hutt Cartel for a trifling two thousand fifty credits, sixteen-year-old Ezra Bridger was given a simple choice: dance or be eaten.
He chose the former.
Jabba enjoyed his pretty and well-mannered new pet, dressing him in gauzy translucent silks, glittering jewels, and the loveliest chains that had yet graced one of his slaves, while Ezra, for his part, kept his mouth shut and his hips moving, praying that one day he might find his way out of this salacious hive of gangsters and cutthroats… hopefully before Jabba became bored with him and he suffered the same gruesome fate as all the other slaves before him.
He never expected to be liberated by a handsome and completely bantha-shit crazy man who burst through a palace window one night, swinging a lightsaber and sending the entire erotic dinner party—for which Ezra was unfortunately the chief entertainment that evening—into absolute mayhem.
At the height of the melee, the stranger, who was dressed like some kind of kriffing monk and moved like no man Ezra had ever seen before, leaped upon the table and sliced through Ezra’s chains with a single swipe of his glowing blue plasma blade, then offered his hand to the terrified boy.
“I’m Caleb Dume,” he said with a gentle smile, “Knight of the Jedi Order, and I’ve come to rescue you, Ezra Bridger.”