Battle of Darrana

  3 years later

  The fleet under Grand Admiral Thrawn was dispersed across a wide theatre — several divisions, each precisely spaced, staggered in operational depth like an architectural blueprint drafted with a sculptor's eye.

  One small fleet had pressed toward his command division. It was led, according to field data, by a minor rebel systems officer — Svenja Kroenke. Her dossier marked her as meticulous, junior-grade, and analytically inclined. No real command history.

  The flag ship of Svenja's detachment.

  They were hidden now — as much as anyone could be, with Grand Admiral Thrawn drawing a net tighter with every second. The shattered remnants of the Republic's main fleet had already withdrawn from the sector, their formations in ruin. No reinforcements were coming.

  And behind the crescent of the moon, three refugee arcships — slow, shield-light, and carrying nearly a quarter-million displaced civilians — were slipping into their escape trajectory. If they reached the outer corridor before the next sweep...

  That was Svenja's job.

  Not to win. Not to survive.

  But to buy time.

  Her tactical board glowed cold and pale, its pulse timed to the heart of the command ship. Each second that passed, her fleet moved closer to its own dismemberment.

  Her second-in-command, Commander Vayen Sol'karr, stood beside her. His face was drawn, his eyes flicking from the projections to her hands as she adjusted matrix coefficients.

  "This is a suicide run," he said, voice low but taut. "You know that."

  She didn't look up.

  "Yes."

  "And we're going against him."

  "I know."

  Sol'karr swallowed hard. He wasn't weak. But everyone on the bridge could feel it — the chill that came with knowing they'd been tasked not with victory, but with meaningful failure.

  But no one moved to abandon post. They knew the stakes.

  And Svenja — calm, inward, untouched by drama — continued to monitor the BPM matrices, scanning for convergence in the behavioral prediction models.

  Sol'karr, broad-shouldered, gray-eyed, leaned across the central holotable. His voice was low, questioning but not hostile.

  "Are you sure this will work?"

  Svenja looked up from the interface panel, eyes sharp, her tone steady.

  "I've run it six times in simulation since last week. Twelve times in live-dynamic modeling. It aligns. It worked at N'Dorae's Hollow, implemented partially. Even..."

  Sol'karr's brow furrowed.

  "That's not what I asked."

  She didn't flinch. She didn't raise her voice.

  "Yes. I'm sure."

  A silence passed. The other officers exchanged uncertain glances.

  So Svenja laid it bare.

  "This method — this structural prediction overlay — I started developing it back in my homeworld. During joint war games, orbital intercept training, and one black-ops operation."

  Sol'karr raised an eyebrow, but she didn't slow.

  "Back then, we used it for anti-infiltration patterning. Small-unit maneuver validation. It wasn't doctrine, but it worked. And it kept people alive."

  She tapped the model on the holotable. The fleet formation adjusted, the vectors she'd calculated rippling through the projected enemy lines.

  "Now I've spent three years at the Republic Naval Academy. I have two left, unless war fast-tracks the rest. But I've already spent months refining this method here — in live conditions. Trial deployments. Friction field testing. Flank pressure calculations. The results have been promising."

  Sol'karr said nothing for a moment.

  Then:

  "And now?"

  Svenja looked him dead in the eye.

  "Now we're outnumbered. Outgunned. We've got no local reinforcements, three destabilized sectors, and a clock ticking in the wrong direction."

  She pointed at the model.

  "We have one move that shifts the odds. This one."

  "You think you're ready."

  "No," she said. "I know I'm ready. And frankly — we don't have time to wait for someone else to get it validated."

  Another silence.

  Sol'karr nodded, once. Not as concession — but as acknowledgment.

  "Then let's see if the galaxy's ready for you."

  The data stream shimmered.

  Her algorithms ticked.

  The command sequences began to lock into rhythm.

  The enemy patterns were developing just slowly enough.

  Would it work?

  Maybe.

  But maybe was enough.

  She entered the final authorization for maneuver sequence 7-C, then whispered — not to anyone, but to herself:

  "Hold steady. We don't need to win. Just... to vanish before he finds the shadow."

  And with that, the game began.

  ---

  Thrawn watched her first maneuvers. Cautious. Rigid. The kind of attacks that invited textbook countermeasure. His gut confirmed the picture: bright mind, no spine for open-space chaos.

  He nodded to his second-in-command.

  "Scatter their force," he said quietly. "Let the pieces drift. They won't recover."

  He turned away, leaving the engagement to be handled below his level. It wasn't worth his time. He returned to the command deck's inner circle, where broader strategic concerns required his insight — negotiations with flanking admirals, long-range predictive modeling, logistical chain hardpoints.

  Until the disruption came.

  A quiet voice, clipped: "Sir, the engagement with the Kroenke fleet is... still ongoing."

  Thrawn turned, frowning imperceptibly.

  "Casualties?"

  "Minimal, but... persistent. Several of our lighter craft are off-pattern. They're failing to regroup."

  He returned to the bridge viewport. There, on the tactical board, were the symptoms of something quietly wrong.

  His own vessels had become fragmented — overcommitted in pursuit of Kroenke's apparent fragments.An unmarked medium-class vessel had appeared. Positioned just outside of strike range.The AI models — usually pristine — had begun generating increasingly volatile predictions.

  He signaled for full tactical analysis. The AI, cross-referencing maneuver data, began parsing the rebel fleet's motion.

  After thirty seconds, Thrawn murmured, almost admiring: "She's weaving a rhythmic trap."

  He leaned forward. "She's not playing to our doctrine. She's playing to our reaction latency."

  His officers nodded, expressions grim. Thrawn tapped a control pad.

  "She's thinking several steps ahead — too far for a tactician this inexperienced. Her ideas are raw. The execution, clumsy. This... is the blueprint of someone who could be formidable. In time."

  He studied the vectors. "It's a shame. She's a prodigy. Misaligned with the wrong faction. We'll end this before she grows teeth."

  But then — the pattern changed.

  Two of his ships exploded. Precision hits — not large-scale devastation, but surgical strikes through turret apertures and shield leakage zones no enemy had exploited before.

  "A lucky shot," someone said.

  But Thrawn's gut turned colder.

  "No," he muttered. "Not luck. Not with those angles."

  He barked orders. "Change vector rhythm. Decouple from standard pursuit cadence. Break the pattern. Now."

  He ordered nearby divisions to move in support.

  Too late.

  As they closed, three more rebel cruisers decloaked, each striking in harmony with the erratic yet strangely resonant motion of Kroenke's remaining force. His ships, mid-reposition, caught at vulnerable tilt — unable to present shields in time.

  Then came the AI disruption.

  Systems began to hesitate. Timing faltered. Ship-to-ship links stuttered, and target locks drifted. Orders executed with ghost delays. His combat AI — long considered impervious — was showing signs of entrainment. Not hacked. Hypnotized.

  "Shut it down," Thrawn ordered coldly. "Hard kill. Now."

  The AI was severed.

  But the damage was cascading.

  Ships began to collide in their own attempt to recover. Escape corridors became choked with bad geometry. Her system — not her fleet — had folded his fleet's reflexes inward.

  In the silence that followed, as his command ship broke free into safe space, Thrawn stared out at the glowing wreckage behind them.

  He turned to his officers, voice flat.

  "This is a loss."

  He did not rage. He did not make excuses.

  "She cracked the rhythm. And the fleet moved like a man being told to breathe off-beat."

  He stared down at the last recorded motion logs. Still running. Still... elegant.

  "She didn't fight us," he added softly. "She reprogrammed us."

  No one spoke.

  Thrawn's eyes remained fixed on the screen. "Next time — if there is one — she won't be underestimated."

  ---

  The bridge of the command ship was silent at first — not with tension, but with shock.

  Screens flickered with the final signatures of Thrawn's retreat: jagged hyperspace fractures, tactical data severed mid-stream, trails of debris and flickering hulls scattered across the dark.

  Sol'karr stood frozen, hands hovering just above the console.

  "Stars above," he whispered. "He's gone. We... we broke him."

  A murmur spread through the bridge. One by one, officers looked up from their stations — wide-eyed, disbelieving.

  Someone whispered, "Thrawn..."

  Someone else: "We lived."

  But Svenja didn't look up.

  Her eyes stayed fixed on the predictive modeling console, where streams of vector overlays ran like threads across a chessboard only she could read. Her voice was calm — analytical.

  "Not yet."

  Sol'karr blinked. "What?"

  She tapped one display. "There's still an enemy division. Disarrayed. Still maneuvering. They were assigned to cover the Admiral's retreat — likely unaware of the scope of our engagement. But they're off-pattern. Drifting into a net I shaped six cycles ago."

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Her fingers danced over the command pad.

  "I've been funneling them for an hour."

  Sol'karr leaned closer. The projected vectors showed a beautiful trap — enemy vessels lured subtly by her prior fleet motions, their reorientation and response lag just enough to leave them exposed.

  "They're stronger," he said.

  "They were," Svenja corrected. "But they're misaligned. We're precisely where their angles fail."

  And as if to confirm her words, one enemy destroyer ruptured on screen — a silent bloom of light. Then another.

  The fleet moved not like a force — but like a mechanism, each segment pre-aligned to intercept.

  "Execute sequence eleven delta," Svenja said quietly.

  The room fell into focused silence. Her voice carried command, but not pride.

  Ten minutes later, what remained of the enemy division fled into hyperspace, their formation fractured beyond repair.

  Sol'karr exhaled — part laugh, part disbelief.

  "You manipulated an entire fleet into their own blind spot."

  Svenja didn't answer.

  She was already logging the final sequence — her eyes on the next model, should another shadow emerge.

  The last enemy cruiser vanished into hyperspace, trailing debris and failed signal echoes.

  A stillness settled over the command bridge — not from exhaustion, but from the eerie recognition that something unprecedented had just unfolded.

  Sol'karr stood frozen in place, hands flat on the console, eyes scanning what was left of the tactical feed.

  His voice, when it came, was half-whispered.

  "That wasn't strategy," he said.

  "That was surgery."

  At the sensor station, Lieutenant Chask stared forward, face pale. "They didn't even realize they'd lost until we were already inside their defenses."

  Svenja's eyes, still fixed on the predictive display, blinked once. Then — for the first time in hours — she looked up.

  Just once. And nodded.

  But then her voice came, quiet and clipped.

  "Don't relax yet. He left behind fragments."

  Sol'karr turned to her, blinking. "You mean...?"

  "A few scattered squadrons. Placed deliberately. Close enough to tempt us into dismissal, but not enough to pose real threat — unless we got complacent."

  She turned to her communications officer.

  "Order all units to hold combat posture. Sweep pattern nine. Verify every vector against the counter-ambush matrix. Execute the mop-up."

  The officer responded immediately. The crew around them sprang back into motion — not out of fear, but respect.

  Sol'karr exhaled. "He tried to bait us."

  Svenja folded her hands behind her back, her voice unchanging.

  "If I ever lacked anything," she said, "it was certainly not caution."

  The room was silent again — not with disbelief now, but awe.

  They had survived Thrawn.

  They had beaten him.

  And now they would clean the board without blinking.

  ---

  Three days later, Thrawn stood alone in the strategy archive, a quiet chamber sealed behind layers of magnetic shielding and silence. The air was cool. The console before him glowed in subdued amber.

  The loss evaluation report hovered mid-air, its margins pulsing with imperial insignia.

  His command division, along with the three adjacent strike arms, had suffered forty to sixty percent casualties — depending on how one accounted for crippled vessels. Not destroyed, necessarily, but neutralized beyond battlefield utility.

  His long-term strategic cascade — a carefully staged series of sector captures, built around a pivot toward the Karseldon Ship Nexus — was now derailed. The Nexus, with its massive orbital drydocks and assembly pylons, had slipped from reach. Delayed. Not irrecoverable, but...

  Slowed. Significantly.

  He turned from the tactical logs to a quiet folder marked with nothing but a string of digits — not her name.

  Inside were three documents:

  A short abstract on drone synchronizationA schematic for neural-pacing control networksAnd a half-published whitepaper titled "On Latency Windows in Distributed Mechanical Systems"

  Author: Svenja Kroenke. University Access Archives. Provisional License.

  He read it slowly, eyes tracking each line with growing stillness.

  "She always fought with machines," he murmured. "Even when she used fleets."

  He reached to the side of the display and closed the report — all except for one screen, the last-known projection of her fleet vectoring out of the sector, vanishing into the stellar drift like an echo perfectly timed.

  His fingers tapped the console.

  And in that quiet room, far from any applause, he felt the exhilaration of defeat.

  And then — as if speaking not to anyone present, but to the air itself:

  "I wanted a worthy adversary."

  "Now I have one."

  His expression didn't change. But somewhere behind his eyes, something settled — like a man who had found not a rival, but a reflection twisted by time, ethics, and fate.

  To Thrawn, victory was always a function of design. But challenge — true challenge — was rarer than conquest.

  Later, aboard the reassembled flagship, the lights in the strategic deck were dimmed. Most of the crew had dispersed. The wreckage of the engagement was now distant — both literally and in the strategic feed. Recovery protocols were underway. Replacement vessels already being routed.

  But Lieutenant Melith, junior tactics officer, lingered on the periphery of the command table, shifting with restrained hesitation.

  Thrawn glanced at her.

  "Speak."

  Melith straightened. "Sir... is it possible that the losses — while severe — were circumstantial? That this Kroenke officer simply... lucked into a vulnerable gap in our formation?"

  The silence afterward was palpable.

  Thrawn turned his head slowly, his expression unreadable but no longer remote.

  "No," he said flatly.

  He allowed the word to hang.

  Then added, "You can accidentally win a skirmish. Not disassemble a command division with precision-timed detonations and harmonic AI subversion."

  Melith looked down. "Understood."

  Thrawn's voice, lower now: "What she did wasn't random. It was measured. She orchestrated rhythm, reaction, and reinforcement timing."

  He tapped once on the dimmed console, pulling up a still image: the fleet vector overlay at the final moment before the retreat.

  "She turned the fleet's collective intelligence into a mirror. And then... broke the reflection."

  He looked up again.

  "When you meet a mind like that, Lieutenant — you do not insult it with the word luck."

  ---

  On the flagship of Taskforce KD1174.5, the atmosphere had turned brittle.

  What had begun as low murmurs among junior officers and NCOs had swelled into open disquiet. The air in the corridors was taut with frustration — not mutiny yet, but the dangerous kind of unity born from grief and perceived hesitation.

  The enemy fleet — Thrawn's fleet — had been broken and scattered, and yet no pursuit had followed.

  Pilots had died. Crewmen lost. The battle had been won.

  So why, they asked, had Lieutenant Svenja Kroenke ordered a full hold?

  That question led them here — to Hangar Two, where a hastily convened assembly of deputies now stood at parade-rest, eyes sharp, some angry, most exhausted, all seeking answers.

  Svenja stood before them — not elevated, not surrounded by guards, just present, in her standard uniform, sleeves still faintly smudged with carbon from her last field inspection.

  She gestured toward the tactical projection panel, and the hangar lights dimmed.

  "You ask why we didn't pursue," she began, her voice measured, without defensiveness.

  A murmur rose. One of the senior petty officers stepped forward, voice steady but heated.

  "Ma'am, with all respect — our people died to drive him off. And we had them retreating. If we moved fast enough..."

  "We'd be running straight into Thrawn's trap," she interrupted gently — not to dismiss, but to protect.

  The display shimmered to life — a tactical visualization of Thrawn's remaining fleet resources, overlaid with predictive build-up timelines, supply vector probabilities, and weaponized recovery intervals.

  "Yes, he's wounded," Svenja said. "But not broken. His retreat wasn't disarray. It was positioning."

  The diagram shifted, simulating a rapid chase scenario.

  "Assuming we pursue," she continued, "he'd require approximately 4.2 hours to reroute remaining fleet elements. We would arrive depleted. His trap wouldn't be perfect — it never is — but it would be good enough. And we would be out of position, far from reinforcement, with no retreat vector of our own."

  She turned to them.

  "We wouldn't die charging a wounded enemy. We'd die finishing the job for him."

  Another officer, younger, red-eyed, spoke up.

  "But what about our timing advantage? He's still calculating, still reacting."

  Svenja nodded. "That timing exists. But it must be used wisely."

  The screen changed again — a regional map. Karseldon sector, with its shipyards, resource lanes, and the crucial planet Darrana blinking in red.

  "Taskforce KD1174.5 is the only combat-capable unit in position to defend Darrana. If we leave without Rear Admiral Veyron Caal'thas's coordination, we create a hole. A hole Thrawn will notice — and exploit."

  She paused.

  "His strength lies not in winning — but in surviving well enough to make your mistakes for you."

  One by one, she presented course-of-action trees. Simulated outcomes. Best case: mutual devastation. Most likely: KD1174.5 wiped out, enemy diminished — but still breathing.

  The room was quiet.

  At last, one of the NCOs — older, grizzled, his arms crossed — nodded slowly.

  "You're saying we can kill him later."

  Svenja looked him in the eye. "We will."

  Another added, quieter now: "But only if we live long enough to aim properly."

  She gave the faintest nod.

  And without fanfare, without ceremony, the mood shifted. Not jubilant. Not fiery. But something harder, cleaner.

  Respect.

  She had not rallied them.

  She had proven it to them.

  And when the hangar lights rose again, they dispersed — not mutineers.

  Just soldiers. With orders. And belief.

  ---

  The office was small — a converted chart room lined with datapads, fleet readouts, and the constant hum of environmental systems maintaining deep-space temperature control. Svenja stood at the central terminal, arms folded behind her back, waiting.

  The holo-call connected with a low chime. A blue-tinged projection flickered into view: Rear Admiral Veyron Caal'thas, seated in a command chair aboard the Indomitable, his uniform precise, expression unreadable beneath the flicker of the holo.

  "Lieutenant Kroenke," he said. "Report."

  Svenja didn't hesitate.

  "Taskforce KD1174.5 engaged and repelled enemy command division led by Grand Admiral Thrawn. Losses minimal. Enemy forces retreated in organized disarray. Remaining hostile presence neutralized. Our unit remains combat-capable, though depleted."

  Caal'thas nodded once.

  "Confirmation matches what reached me via tactical link. Impressive work, Lieutenant."

  She inclined her head. "Sir, we require replenishment — both ships and personnel. Combat capability will degrade rapidly if we're forced to absorb another engagement before restaffing."

  There was a pause. Caal'thas leaned back slightly, gaze narrowing.

  "Replenishment is... constrained."

  Svenja waited.

  "The shipyards near Karseldon are operational, yes. We have hulls. But we lack enough officers and trained crew to bring them online."

  "Understood," Svenja said calmly.

  "Some reinforcements are en route," he added. "Mixed batch — a few veterans reassigned, some recently trained, others... green. Very green. It'll take time to fold them into your command structure."

  Svenja absorbed it in silence, then spoke.

  "Thrawn won't wait forever."

  Caal'thas nodded again. "No. But he'll need time. He's wounded. He'll rebuild before pushing again."

  "And we'll be holding Darrana," she said.

  "You'll be anchoring the sector," he corrected. "For now, you are the fleet."

  A soft hum echoed behind her — another systems panel resetting into standby. Svenja's expression didn't change.

  "Then I'll act accordingly."

  Caal'thas offered her a final nod — one of quiet solidarity. "Hold the line, Kroenke. I'll send what I can. Just keep the flag flying until the rest of us catch up."

  "Yes, Admiral."

  The holo flickered and vanished.

  She stood for a moment in the stillness.

  She was the fleet.

  And somewhere out there, Thrawn was recovering.

  He wouldn't rush. He'd shape the battlefield again. With discipline. With cunning.

  And when he came back, he'd expect the same girl who cost him a division — exhausted, isolated, now outnumbered.

  But what he didn't know—

  —was that she did her best work in impossible conditions.

  ---

  The air in the command office was still, the hum of the ship's core systems fading into the background like a breath held too long.

  The holo-call blinked to life, and Rear Admiral Veyron Caal'thas appeared once again — framed by the cold blue light of the Indomitable's war-room. He looked composed, but there was something else in his gaze now — something more final.

  "Lieutenant Kroenke," he said. "One last update."

  Svenja stood at attention, hands behind her back.

  "Sir?"

  "Effective immediately, I'm being reassigned. Division command — strategic group Delta-Seven. The announcement is being formalized now."

  Svenja blinked once, then said evenly, "Congratulations, sir."

  Caal'thas offered a curt nod, then continued.

  "That leaves the whole KD1174 fleet without a commanding officer. And, under current circumstances, we can't afford a vacuum."

  The pause hung for a beat too long.

  "I'm field-promoting you to the rank of Captain. You'll assume operational command of the taskforce."

  Svenja's breath caught — but only for a second.

  "Sir, with all respect... my academy studies were interrupted. My fleet training is technically incomplete. I—"

  Caal'thas raised a hand, cutting her off gently.

  "The Council knows. I know. But your record speaks louder than any diploma. You're the only one with the cohesion, the authority, and the mind to hold this together."

  "But the rank—"

  "It's provisional. You'll hold it with full command privileges. As soon as we have an adequate replacement, you'll be relieved. But until then..." His eyes narrowed slightly. "You are KD1174."

  She stood silent. Not in protest — in calculation.

  Already, the weight was shifting onto her shoulders.

  "Rebuilding the fleet, tactical training, command integration, resupply coordination — it's yours," he said. "Do what you do best."

  "Understood," Svenja said quietly.

  "The others believe in you," he added. "I suggest you believe in yourself as well."

  The call ended.

  And the room — already small — felt smaller now. Not confining. Not crushing.

  Just full. With the weight of trust.

  She let the silence settle for exactly seven seconds. Then she turned, walked to the intercom, and activated the fleetwide officer channel.

  "This is Kroenke. Captain Kroenke. Command staff report to briefing chamber two in fifteen minutes. We have work to do."

  No ceremony. No pride.

  Just motion.

  And responsibility, accepted like gravity.

  ---

  The war room aboard the Imperial Superdestroyer Chimaera was silent, save for the low hum of filtered light and datafeed transmissions crisscrossing the command table. Grand Admiral Thrawn, hands clasped behind his back, stood before the primary projection — a slow-turning map of the Karseldon sector and its surrounding systems.

  He had addressed fleet disposition, political sabotage, logistical posture — all matters of regular command.

  Now he turned to the final point.

  "Lieutenant Svenja Kroenke," he said, in his usual toneless cadence.

  The officers seated around the table shifted slightly, their discomfort palpable. Everyone in that room knew what had happened — and how little of it had been predictable.

  "The latest analysis," Thrawn continued, "remains... inconclusive."

  The central display shifted to the modeled vector matrix of her last engagement. The simulation looped. And again. Each time slightly different. Each time defying any direct exploit.

  "Her maneuver logic remains opaque. Not unbreakable — but nonlinear. Statistically unpredictable within traditional frameworks. We will, eventually, unravel it... but not cleanly. Not in time."

  One of the intelligence aides cleared his throat carefully. "Sir, our embedded assets within the Republic Navy have failed to retrieve any technical documentation on her methodics. She appears to operate without formal systematization. There's no doctrinal trace."

  Thrawn didn't turn.

  "No. Because there is no doctrine. What we're observing is not a system taught or replicated. It is a live, self-contained tactical engine — executed by a single mind."

  He let that settle.

  "Kroenke is the method. She is, in essence, an expert system... manifested in human form."

  The implication was chilling: if she were eliminated, the method would vanish with her.

  A grim-faced officer at the table voiced the obvious. "Shall we initiate preparation for an assassination team? Off-record, low-deniability."

  Thrawn turned his head slowly.

  "No."

  There was a pause. Not stunned silence — bewildered silence.

  "I will initiate movement through our Fifth Column," he continued. "We will advocate her promotion. Increased command responsibility. Wider jurisdiction."

  The officers blinked. One dared to speak.

  "You intend to help her rise?"

  "Of course," Thrawn said calmly. "Nothing arouses suspicion less than success. Especially when orchestrated through mechanisms the enemy believes are their own."

  He gestured to a second map: recently conquered sectors. Many of them hadn't fallen through fleet action. They had folded — socially, politically — believing they were choosing wisely.

  "In this, I differ from Lord Vader and the Emperor," Thrawn added, voice cool. "They favored domination. I prefer manipulation. Which is why I take sectors with fewer ships — and fewer corpses."

  A faint smile ghosted across his lips — not triumph, but precision.

  "And in any case," he concluded, "the model we have constructed of Kroenke's behavior is now sufficiently complete."

  The holoscreen shifted — a dense behavioral overlay with 92.7% match prediction confidence.

  "We now possess the tools to defeat her. The remaining uncertainty is tolerable."

  An officer at the far side raised one final concern. "But... do we know if she expects another attack on Karseldon?"

  Thrawn turned back to the map.

  "No."

  He pressed a control.

  Every Republic fleet position lit up. Scattered. Overstretched.

  "They suspect nothing. Their defense protocols are spread across three sectors. Not until the final hour will they realize the battlefield has already been chosen."

  The screen narrowed. Zoomed.

  Karseldon. Quiet now. But soon to be the eye of the storm.

  "The final engagement," Thrawn said, "will take place there. And this time, it will be decisive."