Past memory’s

Grand Admiral Thrawn stood in the medical bay, his piercing red eyes fixed on the unconscious figure lying on the bed. Beside him stood the chief medical officer, Dr. Varnic’ahri’nalor, another Chiss whose experience with Skywalkers—a rare and vital subset of Chiss navigators—was unparalleled.

The Skywalker in question was Astra, a thirteen-year-old human girl with fiery red hair that spilled across the stark white pillow. Though human, Astra had been adopted into the Mitth family, a rare honor bestowed due to her force sensitivity—what the Chiss called “Third Sight.”

A Chiss woman, Astra’s caregiver, sat beside the bed, her hands folded tightly in her lap, the tension in her posture betraying her worry.

“It’s an overload spell,” Dr. Varnic said, his tone grave as he glanced over the medical scans. “Navigating into a box system is a challenge even for an experienced Skywalker. This was her first-ever jump, if I’m reading her records correctly.” Concern etched deep lines into his otherwise calm demeanor.

Thrawn’s expression remained inscrutable, though his gaze lingered on the unconscious girl for a moment longer before shifting back to Varnic. “It is regrettable that her first jump had to be under such circumstances,” he said, his voice as measured as ever. “But her training surpasses what we have seen in others. Even Ezra Bridger would falter in such a scenario. How long until she is back on her feet?”

The doctor hesitated, his hands clasping the datapad tighter. “It’s difficult to say. She could recover within several hours—or it might take days. She’s not Chiss, and we have no precedent for how a human Skywalker will handle a spell of this nature. This is uncharted territory for all of us.”

Thrawn’s gaze sharpened slightly, though his tone remained calm. “Very well. Keep me informed of any changes.”

Dr. Varnic inclined his head in acknowledgment.

As the conversation concluded, Thrawn’s eyes returned to Astra. Though his mannerisms rarely betrayed personal attachment, there was a subtle intensity in his gaze. In his own way, he did care for the girl—her potential as a Skywalker was too valuable to ignore, but it was also something more. She had been entrusted to the Mitth family, and by extension, to him.

The room was silent save for the rhythmic hum of medical monitors. Astra’s caregiver reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from the girl’s pale face. For all the logic and order Thrawn sought to impose on the galaxy, the fragility of this child reminded him of the unpredictable nature of life itself.