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“I hate this,” Thrawn grumbled, tugging at the edge of his robe. “I don't see why I can't just wear my uniform.”
“Decorum,” Thrass soothed, settling on the bed beside his brother. “This isn't about your military career. It's about your value to the Family.”
“‘Value to the Family’?” Thrawn repeated, one eyebrow raised. “Of course. It wouldn't be civilized to refer to us as breeding stock.”
“Thrawn.”
He turned away, raising a trembling hand to the healing wound on his temple. “You didn't see how the Aristocra swept into medbay. Warriors dead and dying from an attack by an aggressor we know nothing about, and Thrace’s only concern was delivering the news that I’d been named Trial-born.” Thrawn gave a short, bitter laugh.
There were two loud snaps followed by shuffling as Thrass opened his case and began removing brushes and small glass pots. “The decision to grant you Trial-born status was made before your last engagement.”
“And now that I'm on forced leave, it's the perfect time to be trotted out and bid on.”
Thrass rolled his eyes and forced Thrawn to face him. “Look up.” Thrawn complied, glancing up towards the starscape mural painted on the ceiling. A fine-tipped brush whispered against his skin, leaving a black trail of kohl behind. “You’ve barely stood on solid ground in the last five years. The Family barely knows you. You can't expect them to make a match based on reports from the Expansionary fleet.”
“I don't want a match.”
Thrass sighed heavily, “now you're just being childish.”
“And you expect me to leave my service and fall in line with what the Family desires,” Thrawn countered hotly.
“I almost lost you,” Thrass hissed, eyes blazing. “Yes I'm concerned with military activity that sends you to the very edges of Ascendancy space with an inexperienced commander!”
“Every officer must needs have a first command,” Thrawn remarked evenly. “And the scale of this mural is wildly inaccurate. Caespla and two systems are missing entirely. The artist must have encountered hardship in those areas and left them out, adjusting the scale to cover his omission.”
“Focus,” Thrass snapped, unwilling to let his brother shift the subject. He leaned in and brushed the kohl over Thrawn’s other eye. “There were...discussions, held about your dispatch. Thrace and I have differing opinions. Ultimately, it was decided that it would be highly improper to raise objections with the Hierarchy, especially in regard to your service.”
“Is that why the Ithlonian vase in the drawing room is missing?”
Thrass’ mouth tightened. “Yes.” A wider brush swept across Thrawn’s cheeks. “Be gracious, let the Syndics see you. Once a match is made, you just need to give the Family children.”
“I don't-”
“You will.” Thrass’ tone was icy. “It's the contract we both entered into when the Family took us in.”
“I was two,” Thrawn hissed.
Thrass had dug out a black wood pencil with a crimson tip. He tipped Thrawn’s head back with a gentle touch and carefully lined his eyes. “We would have likely arrived at this position eventually. I'll be with you all night. The Syndics-”
He was interrupted by a knock at the door. Thrass paused to move his effects aside and crossed the room to answer it.
Thrawn sat studying the painted starscape above him. Something was still bothering him. As his eyes searched, his mind wandered to the Blackwing. He played the battle over in his head: the strange ship appearing from nowhere, disgorging equally strange fighters, and overloading their shields before systematically destroying gunner stations.
“As if they had detailed maps of our ship…” he muttered to himself. He'd desperately tried to mount a defense but the enemy had torn apart the Blackwing with unimaginable speed and precision. No, it was foolish to level the blame on an inexperienced commander. The fight was over before it began.
He touched the wound at his temple again, trying to sort through the dreamlike images following the hull breach. All it had taken was a single battery of perfectly placed offensive fire. Most of the bridge crew hadn't been suited against the possibility of open vacuum. A single explosion and the ship had been left dead in the middle of open space.
He needed to think. He needed to plan.
“Thrawn?” Thrass was shaking his shoulder. He blinked and turned his attention away from the painted starscape.
“Is something amiss, brother?” Thrawn kept his tone even, unwilling to add to the deep lines of worry creasing Thrass’ face.
“This arrived.” Thrass held out an envelope, sealed with the unmistakable black wax of the Hierarchy.
“It's probably my court martial for taking unlawful command of the Blackwing.” Thrawn took the envelope and snapped the wax. And froze.
“Thrawn?” Thrass’ cerulean hand squeezed his shoulder. “Surely that's not a retraction of your recovery leave…”
“No…” he started, feeling suddenly lost. “It's...a promotion.” He glanced up at Thrass, a smile tugging at his lips. “I've been named commander of the Springhawk.”