A flicker of movement in the viewport pulled my attention back. A squadron of TIE Hunters, led by Tam Blackstar, roared past in perfect formation. Their deadly precision was a reminder of the discipline and skill I demanded from all who served under me. Thrawn had admired discipline, too. He had once told me that the beauty of order could be found in the smallest details—a line of battle, an art form, the structure of a single military campaign. I had scoffed at him at the time, but now, years later, I understood.
Thrawn had turned warfare into art. I was simply an artist admiring the masterpiece he had left behind.
I raised my glass once more, this time toasting the emptiness that Thrawn's death had created in the galaxy. It was a void that no one—not Harrsk, not Delvardus, not even I—could ever truly fill.
"To you, Thrawn," I whispered, my voice barely audible against the hum of the ship. "You did what no one else could. Including me."
I downed the glass in one smooth motion, feeling the burn of the alcohol as it slid down my throat. The second glass, Thrawn's glass, remained untouched.
As I stared out at the construction of my ever-growing fleet, I couldn't help but wonder how long it would be until someone like Thrawn emerged again. If anyone ever could. Perhaps I should be grateful that there was no one else like him. After all, the galaxy already had enough chaos without another tactician capable of unraveling it.
The patrol of fighters passed by again, their engines a faint whine against the backdrop of silence in my office. I watched them, my mind drifting to the battles yet to come.
I had my fleet, my command, and my ambition. But Thrawn... Thrawn had something far more elusive.
I was alone with my thoughts, which today seemed to swirl as darkly as the drink in my hand. Delak Krennel, the self-proclaimed Prince-Admiral of the Ciutric Hegemony, had become more than an annoyance. His support for Ysanne Isard during her reign of terror had made him a target—not just for the New Republic, but for me. Krennel was bold, daring even, but more dangerous was his cunning. He was a warlord cut from the same cloth as many of the other Imperial remnants scattered like wolves across the galaxy.
But he was no Thrawn.
I took another sip, feeling the warmth course through me. The second glass sat across from me, untouched, a silent homage to a man far more dangerous than Krennel could ever hope to be—Grand Admiral Thrawn. Thrawn had been different, and in a way, we all knew it. His meticulous strategy had sent shockwaves through the galaxy during his brief campaign, his knowledge of art and culture giving him an edge I could admire. He turned the New Republic into a bleeding, wounded animal, losing nearly a third of its territory in a matter of months. His ability to bring them to their knees with nothing but cold logic and studied precision had been...masterful.
I, too, had learned from history, but my methods were different. I understood the nuances of people—manipulating them, bending them to my will. But Thrawn, he had an entirely different lens through which he viewed the galaxy. I looked at the second glass of whiskey. "You," I murmured softly, my voice low, "managed to terrify them with nothing but art and a handful of ships. I wonder what you'd think of Krennel."
My attention shifted back to the warlord at hand. Krennel was a nuisance that had to be dealt with before he could become a legitimate threat to my growing power. Through carefully placed agents and smugglers, I had already begun laying the groundwork to make it seem as though Krennel's operations were part of a larger scheme. The New Republic would eventually be forced to act, but not directly. No, they would deal with him because of me. Through whispers in the shadows, I'd ensured Krennel's empire was seen as a blight to both sides, his machinations becoming a web too tangled to be ignored.