Around him, the space above Arcadia burned.
Imperial and Arcadian capital ships exchanged a flurry of volleys back and forth- the red and green turbolaser bolts lit up the black canvas-like strobe lights on a name-day celebration. Between the cruisers, the frigates, and the destroyers, fighters dodged and dived this way and that, either shooting each other down or being shot down. Burning wrecks of cruisers either drifted off into space or got caught in the planet's gravity well, shearing past the planetary shield and crashing into the earth below, where more fierce engagements between two opposing armies were taking place. Slowly but surely, it seemed like the Empire was gaining the upper hand in this fight…
… and Theon could concentrate on none of that right now.
He looked around the dimly lit cabin at the tagmata commandoes who were hand-selected to join him. Unlike the regular army soldiers- who were equipped with open-faced helmets, olive drab uniforms, sunglass-style optics that doubled as eye-protection, and plastiod plate carriers with only knee pads and vambraces to increase mobility- the tagmata were armored head to toe in a thick, dark grey composite armor that bordered on black. Their helmets completely enclosed their face, save for a silver, polarized visor which betrayed nothing of their visage, giving one a feeling of seeing some sort of wraith.
There were seven tagmata divisions in total, representing less than a hundredth of the overall size of the Arcadian Royal Army. However, those seven divisions- and the roughly eighty-thousand armored warriors put into them- represented some of the best special operations forces the galaxy had ever seen, perhaps even rivaling Mandalorians or Imperial Storm Commandos in tenacity and willpower.
The tagmata, as he had learned, typically deployed in small teams of five men each, being deployed either from gunships or via jump-packs in sub-orbital or high-altitude situations, hence their motto- "Hell from Above"
Right now, that hell was coming for Thrawn, flying at all haste towards the Chimera in three, state of the art Multi-Altitude Assault Transports, or MAATs, for short- a replacement for the venerable LAATs of Clone Wars fame. Sturdier, more heavily armored, and upgraded with the latest firepower specifications, the MAATs- or "Marties", as the troops loved to refer to them as, could go further, farther, and take more punishment than the old "Larties".
Theon just hoped that it could take enough flak to get them through to the hanger of the destroyer they were trying to board.
"All elements this net, this is Beta-Two-Niner. We are ETA five mikes from the target zone. Make sure all ammo and equipment are green. Be advised, the ride will get bumpy here soon. Beta-Two-Niner, out," the gunship's pilot announced over the onboard intercom.
The team of five commandos said nothing, instead electing to check over weapons and making sure their armor was put on correctly, as the light in the cabin shifted to dim red.
Theon nodded grimly and did a final check on his rifle, ammunition, and the side-arm he had strapped to his hip. Although he was grateful that Rau and what remained of his squadron of X-Wings were providing much-needed escort for this mission- keeping fighters and corvettes off their backs- he knew that it wasn't going to get any easier once they breached the hanger bay of the Chimera. A Star Destroyer typically held a full legion of stormtroopers for security and assault purposes, and he only had fifteen men in total coming with him for this little boarding action. This didn't even take into the sheer size and labyrinthine nature of Imperial-class ships- it could take precious time to even fight to their objectives. Not to mention that Thrawn was being personally guarded by deathtroopers, who could very well be a match for the tagmata, and if what Ezra told him was true, the Chiss admiral was no pushover when it came to close quarters fighting himself.
He smiled grimly. Since when was an Ironborn not outnumbered and outgunned?
The ship around him rocked, as the audio receptors inside the boat translated light and heat energy into sound, letting them know that they were taking an ever-increasing amount of flak from the destroyer's laser cannons.
Good, Theon thought, at least we're getting close to the hanger.
"Alpha team, thirty seconds!" he announced. The sergeant in charge of Alpha Team nodded, and raised their carbines into the ready position, intending to blast any "welcoming party" that waited for them in the hanger.
That is...if the gunships didn't make mincemeat of the stormies themselves.
After twenty-five seconds had passed, he felt the gunship slow down, indicating that they had passed through the hanger's shields. The swooshing-sound of missiles being launched, followed by muffled explosions and the raucous noise of beam cannon fire let Theon know that the gunships were clearing out whatever defenders were in the hanger.
The red light shifted to green.
The doors of the Marty slide open and the tagmata sprung forth into the cold, sterile light of the Chimera's hangar bay, which had been thoroughly wrecked by missile and beam fire. Burning wrecks of shuttles and destroyed equipment littered the hanger, along with the twisted and charred bodies of stormtroopers- a few of which were intact and recognizable as human soldiers. About a hundred meters in front of them stood the door to the rest of the ship, a few meters below the now-destroyed hanger control room.
"All teams, report status," Theon commanded.
"Alpha team, all up," Alpha-One reported.
"Beta Team, all green," Beta-One affirmed
"Delta Team is green, sir," was Delta-One's reply.
Theon had to suppress a grimace. It was common knowledge that the tagmata never revealed their actual names and rank to anyone but their immediate squadmates and their direct chain of command- neither of which he was a part of. He would have to deal with using code-names for now. It wasn't that he wasn't unfamiliar with aliases- he operated under a false name for the longest time, after all.
It was just that he was sick and tired of it.
He sighed and stuck the hacking cylinder into the terminal nearest the door. Soon enough, a complete schematic of the destroyer's interior layout popped up on his vambrace's projector.
"Alright, teams, listen up," Theon beckoned over to them. The team leaders and their immediate subordinates formed up in a semi-circle around him, while a member from each of the three teams covered the doorway, still listening in on their internal comms. "It'll be around thirty mikes before reinforcements come, and when that happens, Thrawn is likely to order a full retreat. Therefore, we've not got much time, so we're going to have to split up," he exclaimed, then pointed to the back of the hologram. "Alpha-One, I'm giving you and your fireteam the task of disabling the hyperdrive generators near the rear of the ship. We have to prevent the Grand Admiral from escaping, at all costs."
"Resistance is likely to be heavy," Alpha-One pointed out.
"Indeed it is," Theon confirmed. "With any luck, though, Thrawn deployed much of his contingent to the surface, although he'd still keep a sizable force onboard for security purposes, not to mention that they'll use every manner of trick in the book to slow us down or stop us. Speaking of which, Beta Team will have the honor of coming with me to take the bridge, and either apprehend Thrawn… or neutralize him." He then turned to the leader of Delta Team. "Delta, you'll remain behind and hold the entrance for our exfil in case things go south. I don't feel like getting trapped on this ship."
"Roger, sir," Delta-One affirmed. "Nothing will get past us."
Theon nodded. "If everything's settled, we can begin. Good luck, gentlemen."
With that, the teams moved out to accomplish their objectives. Dead or alive, Thrawn would be brought down.
All their lives depended on it.
Ezra was nearing his breaking point.
Having been awake for the past twenty-four hours and had been fighting for a good portion of it, plus having to use the Force extensively, he was now beyond bone-tired.
And he knew that he was losing ground.
At first, he held his own against the Ninth Sister. Dodge, parry, thrust, counterstrike. But he was straining himself, being unable to keep up against her more powerful, forceful blows. He was worn out, sleep-and-food deprived, dehydrated, and struggling to even lift his lightsaber now. His opponent, on the other hand, was fresh, eager, and well-fed.
He figured that both of them knew that the battle was coming to an end soon.
"Got to hand it to ya, kid," Ninth Sister complimented, "you've lasted a lot longer than most Padawan's I've faced. If you weren't so tired, you would have maybe even beaten me." She then shrugged. "Oh well. Was having fun but now I'm getting bored. So I'm gonna make this quick, Lothrat," she growled.
The Force only gave him a split moment's warning- he only had a millisecond to react before the Ninth Sister kicked him right in the sternum with her huge, armored boot.
The blow sent him flying back several meters, making roll a few times until he crashed into the ground, as his lightsaber was loosed from his grasp and clattered a few meters away from him.
He felt the air get knocked out of him as he landed hard on the cold duracrete street, and he was fairly sure her boot had cracked several ribs has he began gasping for air, trying to ignore the intense pain in the of his head, which was now exposed as his helmet had been knocked off earlier in the fight.
"Heh. Look at you. Gulping for air like a dying fishy. Might as well put ya out of your misery right now and gut you, Lothrat," the Ninth Sister mocked as she walked over to him, her lightsaber's crimson hue lighting up the aura in a blood-red glow, making the Dowutin appear as a demon or evil specter- which, in all honesty, wouldn't be too far off the mark. She came to stand over the struggling young Jedi, smiling like a shark as she did so. "Say good night, little Padawan."
The Inquisitor slowly raised her blade, ready to end his life, and Ezra took one more breath and closed his eyes.
He had failed.
In those moments, he thought of his parents. He thought of Lothal and it's wild, sweeping plains. He thought of his master, of Hera and Chopper, of Robb and Theon, and of Zeb, who he knew he would be joining soon.
Mostly, he thought of Sabine, and how their love had just been blossoming like a winter rose in spring, consumed by the fires of war, and by the hot singe of a lightsaber.
But the strike never came.
He waited for what seemed like a moment and opened his eyes. Before him stood two figures. The first was a man in his prime, with hair the color of fire and a scar running across his lip. He appeared confident and bold, yet grim and measured. It was this man who had stopped the Ninth Sister's ruby sword with a lightsaber of his own, the blade blazing violet. On his back was a small droid, of a make and model Ezra didn't recognize. Standing next to the man and his droid was a woman in exotic red garb. She had ashen skin, bordering on white, which matched her silver hair that was tied up in a ponytail. On her face were Dathomirian tattoos, indicating to Ezra that she must be a Nightsister...if the green magic emanating from her hands wasn't enough of a giveaway.
Too weak to join the battle, he finally let sleep overtake him, and passed into unconsciousness.
Cal Kestis was one of those few people in the galaxy who could say that he lived a real storied life.
He was found as a babe by the Jedi Order, during the time when Naboo had been under siege by the Trade Federation and a treacherous snake wormed and connived his way into the highest positions of power. He was made a Padawan to Master Jaro Tapal, an accomplished Jedi from Lasan, and the closest thing he had to a father. He remembered Order 66 and his father-figure's final sacrifice, of hiding on Bracca as a scrapper until being found by Cere Junda and Greeze in the Mantis after being chased by Cere's former apprentice-turned-Inquisitor, the mentally-deranged Trilla Sundri, known to the Empire as the Second Sister. He recalled being thrust into the search for a Holocron containing the map of Force-sensitive children, and the trials that went with it, during which he met the woman he would grow to cherish- one Merrin of Dathomir, The journey culminated when he defeated Trilla at the Inquisitorial fortress on Nur, only to barely escape with their lives when they had to flee from the terrifying Dark Lord of the Sith, Darth Vader.
He recalled after destroying the holocron that they went after the Zeffo, intent on finding where this ancient race had fled to. They had traveled deep into the Unknown Regions, encountering strange worlds and even stranger civilizations. They had even encountered deadly foes- the most dangerous of whom were now threatening to destroy all life in the galaxy.
It was this threat that had brought them back into known space.
As always, he had let the Force guide him, and as fate would have it, it guided him to Sakifwanna, where he felt that something grand would happen.
And it did.
A pair of smugglers and a few Mandalorians came to that world, warning it's garrison that Arcadia was under heavy assault by the Empire. The army and fleet stationed there wasted no time, desperate to come to the aid of their homeworld.
And guided by the Force, Cal and his friends would also come to Arcadia's aid.
Now, he was here, standing over the unconscious form of a young Jedi Padawan he didn't even know, protecting him against a foe he had once thought dead, while Merrin kept any Purge Troopers at bay, her green magick cackling like fire in her palms.
"Mer," he calmly stated, keeping his eyes on the incensed Ninth Sister, "take BD and get the boy to safety. I'll handle the Inquisitor."
Merrin's soft brown eyes betrayed conflict, but soon hardened in resolve.
"Alright, Cal. Try not to get killed, please?"
Cal wanted to smirk and give a snarky reply back, but he knew with the snarling and angry Ninth Sister in front of him- being backed by more than a few purge troopers- there simply wasn't enough time, so he instead offered her a reassuring nod.
With that, the Nightsister put her hand on the young, knocked-out Jedi and his lightsaber, and with a flash of bright green energy, they disappeared, going somewhere away from the battle.
Cal fully turned his attention to the Ninth Sister, his countenance becoming one of grim determination.
"You…." the Ninth Sister growled.
"Me," Cal answered back nonchalantly. He immediately disengaged the blade lock and activated the other end of his lightsaber.
"You got lucky on Kashyyk, scrapper trash!" Ninth Sister slurred out. "This time, you ain't gonna be so fortunate."
"Funny, Massana," Cal shot back, using her real name, which shocked the Dowutin as her mouth slightly dropped open. "As I recall, I defeated you pretty soundly all those years ago. You're pretty resilient yourself, I agree. I also agree with you that this ends now."
With that, they launched at each other, his violent blade clashing against her crimson one, his Niman against her Juyo,
Like most dark-siders, Massana Tide relied far too much on reckless aggression and blind rage, and even though that might have made her a fatal opponent against an average solider or a Jedi Padawan…
...it didn't help her one bit when facing an experienced Jedi Knight like Cal.
"Urgh," she grunted, after having to parry another swing from Cal's blade, "standstill, you little.."
The knight dodged another strike from the Ninth Sister. Sloppy, he thought, she hasn't much practice since I last fought her.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the purge troopers surrounding them. He knew if he didn't act fast and end this, they were going to cut him to pieces.
So, he separated his lightsaber into two pieces, a modification he had made to the blade when he had reforged it at Ilum. Massana Tide was about to get a nasty surprise, for he wasn't just a Niman practitioner…
He was also skilled immensely in the Jar'Kai fighting style.
The look of shock and terror on Massana's face indicated that she also figured the end was nearing, and after a few more blows, it ended.
The Ninth Sister, in desperation, went to block.
His first blade went through the center of her saber, cleaving it in two.
His second blade struck clean through her face and down through her diaphragm.
The Dowutin slackened her grip, dropping the cleaved saber which clattered to the ground with an undignified clang. The giant of a woman only stood for a few moments longer, before her eyes rolled into the back of her head, and she fell face forwards into the cement.
The Ninth Sister, formerly Massana Tide, was dead.
And Cal Kestis breathed a sigh of relief, before refocusing himself and turning towards the purge troopers, who started shuffling and gripping their weapons tighter- he could feel their nervousness rolling off of them in sheets.
He pointed the saber in his right hand towards their leader- a big, bulky trooper with a vibroax. "Well, boys," he said, calmer than the skies of Naboo, "shall we begin?"
There were no lights on in the dark halls of the Gilded Palace. To conserve energy for the turbolaser towers and anti-aircraft batteries, all power had been rerouted towards military and essential functions. Not even royalty was spared from war-time necessity. However, at least one of the current occupants of the throne room didn't mind the dim hall, barely lit by waning moonlight.
It reflected her mood.
As Irene sat on her father's throne- no, it was her brother's, now- she heard the rumble of distant battle echoing outside through the walls. On the chair next to her sat Theodora, looking equally anxious and worried, and sitting on the dais were the two Mandalorians, their blasters in their hands, relaxed but ready to spring into action.
"Have reinforcements come through?" Theodora asked. "I've not heard anything on the comms yet since they were restored."
"They'll come," Sabine reassured. "I'm sure of it."
Irene said nothing and looked up at the banners hanging on the walls. The personal sigil of House Beniko- a golden eagle ascendant on a field of violet. Despite her grim mood, she could not help but smile and get lost in memory, as she remembered a story her father told her.
"Why's our symbol the eagle, papa?" a little Irene asked her dad, as she sat on his lap while he was seated on the throne. It was just the two of them in that room- no councilors to harry them, no nobles to bother them, and no grumpy Alexios to sour the mood.
Lysandus smiled at her. "Oh, that's a long and boring story, little Iri," he said, waving his hand while using her favorite nickname. "I'm sure you don't want to hear it."
"I do wanna hear it though, papa!" she complained. "I wanna hear it so badly! Can you tell me? Pretty please?"
Lysandus laughed. "Alright, Iri. You've convinced me," he offered. The king then looked towards the window. "Where to start...hmmm….I guess the beginning is a good a place as any. You know of our founder, Arcus Beniko, right?"
Irene nodded her head, attentive towards the story.
"Do you know how he came here and founded this nation?"
She shook her head. She had not taken the history courses that Alexios had yet. She was too little.
"It begins with the Vong War. Over three thousand years ago, a race of barbarians surged out of the Unknown Regions, intent on plunder and strife. Arcus' father, Theron, sacrificed himself to buy time for the people of their homeworld, which had been Zakuul at the time. The survivors of that world, along with others including Tion, joined Arcus and his mother to wander the stars,t trying to get away from the war between the Republic and the Vong as swiftly as they could, guided only by mysterious voices. It was those voices that lead them here, to this planet, still known back then as Varl."
"What was it like back then, papa?"
Lysandus sighed, "It was a very bad place, dear. No grass grew in the fields, no waves that crashed upon the beaches, and no air to breathe. All there were sand and stone, and the misrule of the Hutts. It was not what anyone had in mind when they were selecting a new homeworld. But the Force lead them there, and it was leading our ancestor to a specific spot."
"Mount Theron?" Irene asked eagerly.
"Yes, but it didn't have a name back then. Arcus chose to head down to the surface first, respirator and all, not willing to have another sacrifice himself for him so soon after he had lost his father. He began his ascent up the mountain, sustained by nothing but his willpower and his resolved, and once reaching the top of the mountain, he received a vision. A vision of the three gods we worship today."
"Ohhh!" Irene cooed.
"It was those three gods who showed him a land beyond the mountain- a large sloping hill that dominated a large cliff face. On that hill, an eagle roosted. It was on this hill that our palace was eventually built, and that eagle our ancestors took as the symbol for his house. The land around the hill became our city, Lanopolis, named after his mother, and he was named Arcus, First of His Name, King of Arcadia." He pointed towards the eagle on the banner. "That symbol, my daughter, represents more than divinity. It represents the just cause we strive for, the lofty ideals we aspire to, the duty we have to the people we rule, the authority that was granted to us by the gods to rule this world. Remember that, little one,"
A tear streamed down Irene's cheek as she was brought back to the present. How her ancestors would spin in their graves now, seeing their family defiled and their home under assault from malicious Core-born Imperials, and even if they won this battle, she did not see a way that they could win this war. The Empire was too vast and too powerful to be overcome by force of arms, even for one mighty as them.
"Princess…" Johannes asked her, his voice betraying concern, "Is everything alright?"
Irene shook her head. "No...no...it's….I was remembering a story my father told me, about how we received our sigil."
Johannes nodded, understanding. "You're holding onto the memory of your father. Remembering not that he died, but that he had lived, and that he had lived for you."
Irene sniffed. "I know...my brother never shows emotion to anyone, but I know he's hurting as much as I am, if not more."
Before they could speak more, a sudden flash of green light illuminated the room. Squinting her eyes, Irene thought that she could see some kind of portal, and when that green portal dissipated, a strange woman in red garb stood over a young man who looked familiar-
Wait…
"Ezra!" Sabine cried out, taking off her helmet and rushing towards him. The young Jedi looked to be knocked out, most likely due to exhaustion, if Irene had to guess. The young Mandalorian warrior came to kneel over the young Jedi, tenderly caressing his face, before shooting up a hate-filled glare towards the strange woman, who took a step back out of apparent shock. "What did you do to him, witch?" Sabine accused, pointing her blaster towards the now-apparent sorceress.
Irene was confused. Something had happened to Sabine that made her react this way, and it had something to do with the woman in red.
The white-skinned woman held up her hands in apparent surrender. "I did nothing to the boy. I swear it!"
Sabine narrowed her eyes "Coming from a Nightsister, I find that hard to believe," she spat.
The Nightsister...whatever that was...rolled her eyes. "You may not believe me, Mandalorian, but I tell the truth when I say that I am not here to harm any of you. We're here to help you."
"We…?" Johannes questioned, still keeping his blaster trained on her.
The Nightsister said nothing, instead nodding behind her. Popping out over her shoulder was a droid's head, followed by the rest of his little, chicken-like body.
Irene could only watch this little android in fascination. She had never seen a droid like that before. The little robot chirped something at the Nightsister, who nodded.
"Yes, Beedee, this is the one Cal wanted to be healed. Can you give him a stimpack and wake him up, please? He's not too damaged asides from some bruised ribs, fortunately. Else-wise I would have put him in one of the medical centers, and his friends here would have a reason to kill me," she snarked, much to Sabine's apparent chagrin.
The little droid chirped and got to work, sticking something in Ezra's arm.
Almost immediately, the Lothalian human man grunted, fluttered his eyes open and started to sit up, before having his face caressed by a very relieved Sabine.
"Gods, Ezra Bridger," she said as she looked at him straight in the eye, "could you go one karking day without worrying me to death?"
Ezra gave a pained grin. "I'll keep it in mind for the future."
Sabine said nothing, instead choosing to nuzzle her head into the crook of his neck while tightly embracing him. Ezra, for his part, closed his eyes and returned her embrace.
Irene, despite her grim mood, could not help but smile. It was abundantly clear to everyone in that room, she reckoned, that those two truly and deeply loved each other.
A fresh pang stabbed through her heart like a dagger. She was almost...envious of them. How would have things turned out if she had just told Moreena how she felt about her? Would she have betrayed them then? Would her brother and father approve of her relationship with another woman? As her thoughts churned and her emotions riled, she felt fresh tears stream down her cheeks once again...something she thought impossible given how much she had already wept.
"So this is the lucky lad, eh, adi'ka?" Johannes asked his niece. The older of the Mandalorians walked over to the young Jedi. "Hello. My name's Johannes Cato. Sabine is my niece."
Ezra gulped and nodded. "Hello...sir?" the youth said, unsure of how to greet this man.
Johannes laughed. "Sir...so formal. Please, though, call me Jo. If Sabine trusts you completely, then I do as well. Manda be good, I'm not Ursa after all."
Ezra looked surprised. He had never expected that. Irene knew that Mandalorians never gave out their trust freely, so this was something major. The young Lothalian then turned towards the Nightsister. "Thank you for saving my life," he said, earnestly "I never got your name."
The Nightsister waved her hands. "Think nothing of it. My name is Merrin. I'm...well, I'm the last of my tribe," she replied, with a hint of sadness in her voice, to which Sabine muttered something that no one quite heard, but Irene was pretty sure it was the equivalent of thank the gods.
"How did you come here, Merrin?"
"By ship, from Sakifwanna," Merrin answered. "We were on the planet when your envoys arrived, begging for help from the garrison stationed there.
A lightbulb went off in Irene's mind. "Wait...if you came from Sakifwanna, then that means…"
As if on cue, the transponder cackled to life, and on the other end of the transmission, a voice spoke...a voice that filled Irene with something that she had not felt for a long while now…
Hope.
"All stations this net. I say again, all stations this net. This is Anvil-Echo-Yew. Second Fleet has arrived in-system and is engaging the enemy. The eagle still flies! Anvil-Echo-Yew, out."
They had lost.
As the enemy reinforcements pulled in and his fleet was now sandwiched between the battered but still resisting Home Fleet and the incoming Arcadian Second Fleet, on top of the fact that the assault on the shield generator had been wiped out by some unforeseen force and the assault on the city had faltered, he could do nothing but think where it went wrong.
Ignoring Faro's responses to the enemy commandos currently infiltrating their ship and disabling systems on the way, he pondered on how he could have been defeated when everything had been going according to plan before this very moment.
He thought back to his encounter with that mysterious being on Atollon, the entity that called itself "Bendu". It had told him that his defeat was foreseen- your throat being crushed by the jaws of the wolf, while your face is torn by the eagle's talons.
The eagle's talons were now abundantly clear to Thrawn- the Bendu was warning him that he would suffer defeat by the hands of the Arcadians, partially, but the wolf's jaws confused him. Perhaps it was this foreigner in charge of Arcadia's defense who was besting him currently. Could he be a Shistivanen? No, not likely. The wolfmen were, by and large, isolationist, pack-oriented, and predatory. They rarely worked with those they considered "outsiders" unless it was for mercenary or assassin jobs. Therefore, 'wolf' was symbolic of something else, something that he had not thought of, and could not think of.
"Sir, our hyperdrive has been disabled!" one of the bridge crew yelled out. "Multiple squads down in sectors 5, 14, and 3!"
Thrawn sighed deeply while peering out the windows of the bridge. All he could see were the Arcadians squeezing his forces like a vice, sending down their own troops to the surface to relieve the siege of the city. He had lost his best pilots, his most capable general, and was in danger of losing the rest of his men. And now there was no way for the Chimera to retreat.
Even if the ship weren't damaged, he still could not go back to Coruscant to face the wrath of the Sith Lords, and he wouldn't want to risk his officers to suffer the same fate. But it was clear that there would need to be someone from their side.
And he knew just the person to do the job. One of the few people in this galaxy whom he could count on to replace him.
"Open a line to Commodore Pellaeon. Tell him and his squadron to retreat to the rally point at Vandor, and that the battle has been lost. After you've closed communications…" he paused for a moment, collecting his words. In all his years, defeat was something he had rarely experienced, and he knew that he had grown haughty as a result, yet for the sake of his people and his men, he knew that it was something he must accept, even if it wounded his pride. "Open all channels, and wait for my broadcast."
The tech saw the look in his eye and nodded grimly. After relaying Thrawn's message to Pelleaon, who's squadron did as told and promptly retreated through hyperspace towards Vandor, the communications technician opened up every channel on the fleetwide net, and also a few towards the enemy channels, as well.
Thrawn for the first time in his life felt the emotion show on his face, as he gulped hard and began speaking. "All Imperial forces, this is Grand Admiral Thrawn. You have all fought valiantly and well this day, inflicting many casualties on our enemy. However, the tides have turned against us in such a way that not even I can overcome them. Our fleet has been caught in a double envelopment, cutting us off from any aid. Our ground forces cannot advance further, and risk being surrounded by enemy reinforcements themselves. As we speak, more Arcadian fleets are presumed to head this way, intent on relieving their homeworld. As I have exhausted every available option, I have come to the hard but necessary decision that in order to preserve our lives, I must surrender. All forces will immediately cease firing upon the cessation of this transmission, and give themselves up to the nearest Arcadian unit. It has been an honor and a privilege serving with you all. Glory to the Empire. Thrawn, out."
As he finished his sentence, the guns everywhere which had been roaring for the past two-and-a-half hours fell completely silent. Among the bridge crew, he saw teary faces, clenching fists, and heads in hands. All around him he could hear weeping, cursing, and dejected muttering. Even his faithful subordinate looked utterly defeated and hopeless, and he was aware of wetness on his cheek that he wasn't aware of before.
Minutes passed, though they felt like days, and before he knew it he heard a knock on the blast doors. Nodding towards the tech to open the door, he let the would-be assailants step through. The tagmata commandos stepped through and covered them, keeping their guns trained on everyone in the bridge, and among them was a human man. Upon seeing this man, Thrawn's analytical mind immediately went to work.
Grey hair, gaunt face, lean body. Tall. Walks like a humanoid in his mid-thirties, yet facial features suggest premature aging. Mechanical hands indicate he has seen many battles. Dark brown eyes have a haunted look to them. Presume world-weariness and trauma. He wears a long coat over spacer clothes and a plastiod breastplate. The occupation must be that of a pirate or privateer. The Iron Fist. It must be.
He made a gesture towards his two Death Troopers, who were ready to blast the tagmata. Reluctantly, they lowered their rifles and put them on the ground.
"I presume you must be Grand Admiral Thrawn," the Iron Fist spoke in a Coreworlder accent. If Thrawn had to theorize, it had to be Kuati.
"I am indeed," the normally proud and collected Chiss answered, "and I presume you're here to accept the surrender of myself and my forces?"
"That is correct, yes," the Iron Fist spoke. "In the name of Alexios of House Beniko, the Fifth of His Name, King of the Sith'ari and the Tionese, Lord of Arcadia, Defender of the Faith, and Protector of the Realm, I, Theon of House Greyjoy, Lord of Pyke, hereby accept the surrender of yourself, your officers, your enlisted men, and your weapons, and will place you in custody according to the conventions of war and the laws set forth by gods and men."
Thrawn nodded, and unholstered his blaster, handing it to Theon as a sign of his surrender. The Greyjoy took it in acceptance, and as the officers and ensigns were ushered out of the room by the armed tagmata, Thrawn could not help but shed a tear. His men were safe, and his planet would not face Palpatine's wrath, but at what cost?
They could no longer hear the thudding of the guns or the explosions of bombs.
As the rays of dawn poked through the windows of the palace, all anyone could hear throughout the planet was silence, punctured occasionally by wails of grieving families and the hospital speeders dashing to and fro to treat the wounded.
Immediately outside the windows of the palace, Sabine thought she could hear birds chirping. Identifying the birds, she knew the warble of sparrows, but she also heard the caws of a raven or two.
Across all channels on the comms, the cessation of immediate hostilities was being broadcast. Sighs of relief were going up from the few people in the throne room, and right now, Sabine just wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with Ezra and sleep for at least a few days. By her luck, though, it would probably only for a few hours before getting dragged into yet another adventure. For now, though, she was content, and as the doors to the throne room were swung open- as a tearful Irene ran into the arms of her older brother, whose stone face broke and showed the first true sign of emotion that Sabine had seen, and as victory was being declared, Sabine nuzzled up to Ezra and let sleep overtake her, elated that at long last that the myth of Imperial invincibility had been shattered irrevocably.
The battle was over.
They had won.
A/N: The battle is over, and the fate of the galaxy has changed
I found it right for this chapter to introduce a major player in the affairs of my story. Before 2018, I never even concieved of putting the Mantis crew from Fallen Order into my story. After playing through the game, however, I felt that I had to give Cal and Merrin a crucial role.
Many are wondering how Thrawn, the greatest military mind in SW history, could have lost this battle. Well, one is that his greatest strength- preparation and planning- is also his greatest weakness, both in Legends and Canon. If he's unprepared for something that comes out of the blue (like space whales or the appearance of an unknown fleet), he doesn't do too well. Another reason is that he knows that even though he might beat off the reinforcements, there are more Arcadian fleets on the way, on top of the fact that most of his forces are now surrounded and cut off. He might be ruthless and authoritarian, but unlike the Sith, he knows when he cannot win a battle, and seems to care about the lives of the men under him far more than Vader or other Imperials ever would.
Oh, and the reason why I spared Pellaeon? He's going to play a MAJOR role in the wars to come. But that's hush-hush for now.
Till the next! Skal!