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The Director’s Obsession - Phase 11

Character: Director Orson Krennic x F!ISB Agent

Summary: Director Orson Krennic keeps one ISB agent under his thumb, pulling her from lunches, stealing her sleep, and destroying three dates. The project demands everything. Or maybe his obsession demands more.

Words Count: 6,370

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Phase 1 , Phase 2 , Phase 3 , Phase 4 , Phase 5 , Phase 6 , Phase 7 , Phase 8 , Phase 9 , Phase 10 , Phase 11 , -

Headcanons

A/N: Fluff moments with Director Krennic 🥰

Phase 11: Legacy

You're on the couch. One arm stretched over the back cushion, the other buried in his hair as Orson Krennic lies across your lap, head resting low—just above your pelvis, right where the weight of your future has begun to settle in.

He doesn’t speak. Just breathes.

Every inhale is steady. Every exhale feels like surrender.

His ear presses softly against you, as if listening to a sound no one else could ever deserve to hear. The room is hushed, but not empty. The air between you is still full of the things you said last night.

Words that cracked like glass when they left your mouth. He deserved every single one of them.

"You’re still angry," he says eventually, his voice low against your shirt.

You nod slowly, eyes unfocused. "I am."

He hummed. You didn't react, knowing your anger had calmed.

"This child will be my living legacy," he murmurs, almost to himself.

Your hand keeps moving through his hair. Your chest aches, and you don’t know if it’s from grief, or exhaustion, or the way he’s suddenly so soft.

You speak, and it startles him. “What will you do if I leave again?”

He turns his head enough to see your face, even from his angle. His voice is firm. “Not gonna happen.”

You look down at him. “That’s not an answer.”

He shifts just a little, so he can get closer. His cheek is now resting directly against the curve of your belly, his hand sliding across your hip like a man afraid to wake a god.

“I don’t even care that you're using my pillow,” he says. “You can have the house. I’ll sleep on the floor if it means you stay.”

That makes your chest tighten.

You feel him breathe deeper against you, slower now, his fingers drawing absent patterns over your leg.

Then—quiet, hesitant—he asks, “Do you know the gender yet?”

You shake your head. “I haven’t asked.”

You feel him smirk, even before he says it. “You want to know it together with me?”

Your fingers stop for a second. You blush. Damn him, you blush.

He saw it too. He wanted to worship that blush. Frame it. Make a monument out of the fact that he still had the power to disarm you like that. ‘She’s glowing. And I’m the reason why.’

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Yes.”

Your hand returns to his hair, slower now. He sighs at your touch, shameless.

And you think—yeah. I’m the problem.

He senses it. You know he does. You can feel the way his smile deepens.

His hand lays gently over her stomach, splayed like a shield. Like he could protect it from everything, including himself.

He wonders if the child inside can feel what he feels right now. This terrifying, aching devotion that has nothing to do with war, and everything to do with the woman holding his head in her lap, pretending she doesn’t still love him.

He hopes they inherit her spine.

Not his ambition.

He hopes they hear this silence and remember it forever.

Not the sound of weapons. Not the hum of destruction.

Just this.

The sound of being held. The warmth of a hand in his hair. The echo of a future not yet born.

And the terrifying truth that for the first time in his life—Orson Krennic doesn’t want to build anything.

He just wanted to stay like this forever. The warmth you radiated, a gentle current against his skin, offered a profound calm he had never known, a stillness that settled deep within his usually restless core. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his eyes drifted shut.

******************

The metal under his boots doesn’t rumble.

That’s the first thing he notices.

No trembling reactors. No distant sirens. No harsh shouts from subordinates afraid to breathe wrong.

Just silence. Balanced. Controlled. Perfect.

Krennic stands at the helm of a high-tier command center—sleek, gleaming, and his. The view beyond the towering glass panels reveals a defense fleet arrayed like teeth in orbit. Not a Death Star. Not superlasers. A shield. A structure. Protection.

It’s what he always claimed he wanted to build—but never quite reached.

Until now.

Someone steps up beside him. He doesn’t look at them right away—he’s too busy admiring how right this place feels.

Then the voice hits:

“So. You built a Death Star, destroyed Cinderis, and told everyone it was a military decision.”

A pause. Then—

“Let me guess. That was just your way of telling Mom you liked her?”

Krennic turns.

The figure beside him stands with one shoulder leaned casually against the railing. Sharp uniform. Perfect tailoring. Boots polished, but not for show—because this person walks like they command every corridor they step through.

This face…

He frowns slightly.

The eyes—ice blue, too familiar. The mouth? Yours. The smirk? Somewhere in between him and you, balanced like a weapon. Too casual. Too bold.

Now Krennic truly looks at him. The realization sinks in like oxygen lighting a fire.

This isn’t an officer. This isn’t a projection.

This is his son.

“You blew up Cinderis for Mom,” the boy says again, flatly. “I’ve read the files. I’ve read the comm logs. That wasn’t strategy. That was a tantrum in HD.”

Krennic huffs once—short, sharp.

And smirks.

“She deserved a gesture.”

His son rolls his eyes. “She said she wanted peace. You responded by turning a planet into confetti.”

“She didn’t leave after that, did she?”

“Because she thought you were unhinged, not romantic.”

“Same thing.”

“You built all this,” his son mutters, gesturing toward the viewport. “Shields. Defense grids. Precise orbit-based sensors calibrated to redirect threats in under three seconds. No planet killers. Just control.”

Krennic lifts a brow. “Disappointed?”

The boy shrugs. “It’s impressive. I just didn’t expect your idea of a legacy to be… stable.”

“I’ve changed.”

“She never stopped trying.”

Krennic doesn’t argue.

They stand in it for a while. The son, arms folded. Krennic, hands behind his back.

“You still talk about her like she’s classified intel.”

Krennic lifts his chin. “She is.”

“Uh-huh,” the boy mutters, unimpressed. “You’re not subtle, you know. All that data you filed under ‘PR Countermeasures’ was just your angry love letters in code.”

He’s not wrong. Krennic won’t admit it.

The boy sighs like he’s lived through too many briefings. “At least you’re not blowing up planets anymore.”

“I came close. Last year.”

The boy side-eyes him. “Mom threatened to sleep in a separate wing, didn’t she?”

Krennic grins.

The boy leans back against the glass. “Well… you did good. Better than I thought you would.”

And then, after a pause, he says it. Not sarcastic. Not performative. Just true.

“Proud of you, Dad.”

********

A breath pulls through his lungs—real this time.

The cold metal of the dream fades, replaced by warm light and quiet air. His cheek is still pressed against your thigh, the couch holding his weight.

You shift slightly above him.

His voice is low. Sleep-rough. “Did I fall asleep?”

Your fingers move in his hair again. “Yeah. It’s rare for you to take a nap.”

He blinks slowly. The dream still lingers in the back of his mind like static.

“I had a dream,” he murmurs, hand rising to your stomach. He places his palm there, grounding himself in the now. In you.

“It’s a boy.”

You lift your head slightly. “Really?”

He nods. “He’s a menace.”

You snort.

“He reads classified files behind my back. Talks like you. Stands like me. Tells me I’m dramatic, and I don’t even argue.”

You smile quietly.

Then he adds, “He said he was proud of me.”

Your breath catches—but you don’t speak.

You just hold his hand against your belly, and let him believe in that future a little longer.

“He said he was proud of me,” Krennic murmurs again, like repeating it might make it more real.

The words linger, heavy between you both. His tone was too genuine. Too fragile.

The kind of voice someone uses when they’re remembering something they’ve never really had.

You brush your fingers lightly through his hair. “When you finished a previous project and the Death Star… did at least the Emperor or anyone ever say that to you?”

He pauses. Actually thinks about it.

His eyes drift toward the ceiling, unfocused. Then he shakes his head, slowly.

“Never.”

The silence creeps back in.

“I think the last time I heard someone say they were proud of me,” he adds quietly, “was when I got accepted into the Future Program on Brentaal. My parents said it.”

He swallows.

“I was fifteen.”

You don’t speak right away. You just let your fingers move again—slow and deliberate, tracing through his hair with a tenderness that undercuts every sharp corner he's ever tried to armor himself with.

Then you say it. Clear. Measured. Unshakably true:

“Proud of you, Orson.”

His breath catches.

He turns his face slightly, just enough to glance up at you—like he’s not sure he heard right. Like he’s afraid he imagined it.

You nod once.

And he beams. Not a smirk. Not a sly expression or performance. An actual, unguarded, brilliant smile. The kind of smile that cracks through years of ice and calculation.

He looks stunned. Joyful. Boyish, even.

And then—

“Even though at first,” you add with a raised brow, “you made me want to pull out my hair every time you gave me an assignment.”

He huffs a laugh.

You smirk. “And sometimes I genuinely considered burning that smug white cape of yours.”

Krennic actually laughs. Full. Sharp. Honest. It shakes his shoulders a little.

You tilt your head, watching him soften in real time.

“Still,” you say, quieter now, “Building the Death Star… that takes patience. Precision. Strategy.”

A pause. Then your eyes narrow playfully.

“And it did blow up three planets.”

He grins wider. “If it helps, I only personally approved two.”

You sigh, laughing despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

His fingers trail lightly over your belly, a touch so careful it barely registers.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to meet yours, voice quiet but certain, “I’m lucky.”

He shifts just enough to press a kiss to your stomach. Then another—slow, reverent, like he’s trying to speak in a language that doesn't need words.

You don’t reply.

You just keep running your fingers through his hair, grounding him with something no battlefield, no blueprint, no title has ever given him:

Peace.

“You sure it’s a boy?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t move right away. His hand still rests against your belly like he's afraid that letting go might pull him back into that dream.

“I’m not sure,” Krennic answers, eyes half-lidded, voice lower than before. “But in that dream... it felt real. Real in a way nothing else ever has.”

You don’t respond with words. The silence between you holds something rare—calm, for once. No tension. No command. No agenda. Just a moment that feels suspended, unshaken by the world outside these walls. He lies there with his head on your lap like a man who never learned how to rest, and now refuses to move because he finally has something worth staying still for.

******

The next morning, the air in the hospital smells too clean. The lights are too bright, too sterile. You don’t miss the way Krennic’s jaw tenses when the medical droid scans you with mechanical efficiency. He doesn’t like being in places where he isn’t in charge.

But then the monitor lights up. A sound erupts into the room—loud, fast, rhythmic.

A heartbeat.

Krennic’s breath hitched. The sound, a steady, rhythmic thrum, was no longer just a biological function; it was a symphony, a profound echo of shared DNA and mingled blood, resonating within the tiny vessel of life.

"It's beautiful," he murmured, the word thick with an awe he rarely permitted himself.

He leans in instinctively, eyes locked on the display like it’s showing the secrets of the universe. You watch his hand curl into a fist at his side—not from anger, but something else. Containment. Awe.

The droid tilts its head, sensors blinking.

“Healthy. Strong rhythm. Congratulations. It’s a boy.”

For a moment, Krennic doesn’t say anything. But you see it—the subtle shift in his shoulders. The breath he releases. His eyes don’t narrow in skepticism like usual. They widen. He’s not confused. He’s... relieved.

You turn your head, watching him. “You’re kinda glad it’s a boy.”

He glances at you, almost embarrassed by how quickly you read him. Then his usual composure returns, but softened. “It didn’t matter to me at first. Boy, girl... I was going to make sure our child becomes the smartest in the Empire. Strategic. Untouchable.”

He pauses. “But... what if it’s a girl? What if she rolls her eyes like her mother? What if she tells me I’m dramatic when I launch a Star Destroyer at someone who insults her?”

You smile. “Now I wish it’s a girl.”

He steps closer, placing his hand back on your belly. There’s no arrogance in him now. No command. Just reverence. And a quiet kind of wonder he never lets anyone else see.

“I lost the greatest weapon ever made,” he murmurs. “But now I’ve got something better. Smaller. Softer. And a thousand times more dangerous to my sanity.”

You don’t say anything to ruin the moment. He stands there with his hand on you like he's anchoring himself to the one thing that can’t be engineered, controlled, or rebuilt.

Not a weapon. Not a machine. But a future.

And this time, he’s not alone in it.

********

After the hospital visit, the world outside felt slower somehow. The two of you walked side by side, not rushed, not speaking much. Just walking. There was a kind of quiet peace in the air—the kind Krennic had only imagined in between battle briefings and construction deadlines. And now here it was, real and steady, the soft rhythm of your footsteps next to his, the echo of a heartbeat still pulsing in his ears.

He still couldn’t believe it.

He was going to be a father.

A child. With you. A son who would be his legacy not through fear or reputation, but through love and design. A son he would teach everything. Not just discipline or brilliance, but purpose. Patience. Even rebellion, if it served something worth fighting for.

You glanced over and caught him in a daze. “Is it already happening in your head? Planning his entire future?”

He blinked, stopping mid-step. The way you said it—our son—knocked the wind out of him in the best way. Our. The word landed hard in his chest.

“I am,” he admitted, smiling. “I already have security plans drafted. Two versions, in fact. And I’ve picked three academies with diplomatic immunity clauses for early registration. I’ve even started mentally drafting crib schematics.”

You laughed, shaking your head with amused affection. “Of course you have.”

He reached for your hand. “And what about my darling?” His voice dropped, just slightly uncertain. “I haven’t asked how you feel about becoming a mother. Are you ready?”

You didn’t answer right away. Then, with a small, honest smile, you looked at him and said, “To be honest… I can’t wait.”

It stopped him cold. He stared at you for a moment, the words settling deep in his chest like they were anchoring him to this new life.

You added quietly, “I want to give our son the best childhood. I didn’t have much. And I suffered. I don’t want him to go through that.”

He nodded slowly, voice low. “He won’t. Not under my watch.”

Your expression turned thoughtful. “This child… will have parents with power. Isn’t that something?”

That made him grin. Really grin.

“Dangerous combination,” he murmured, before leaning in and kissing you. His hand slipped into yours after, fingers threading naturally, like they always should’ve. Then he pulled you forward gently. “Come on.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer, just tugged your hand with a smug glint in his eye. And you noticed for the first time—no uniform. No gloves. No cape. Just civilian clothes, soft and simple. He looked disarmed. Still dangerous, but softer now, like the war in him had quieted for a while.

A short walk later, you arrived at a familiar building. The door to the tailor’s shop opened with a soft chime, and the man inside turned with theatrical flair. His eyes widened instantly.

“My muse couple,” the tailor gasped, sweeping forward dramatically. “Holding hands. Matching steps. The Empire has blessed me today.”

Krennic rolled his eyes. “We’re here for actual work, not compliments.”

The tailor grinned like a man on stage. “But of course. How may I serve? Custom suits? A matching set? Ceremonial robes for a romantic duel?”

“Maternity wear,” Krennic said plainly. “And baby clothes.”

You looked at him sideways. “This quick?”

He shrugged, unbothered. “Obviously.”

The tailor froze. “Wait. Pregnant?” His voice rose an octave. “You’re having a child? Oh stars above. This is history. Do you want the baby’s first set to have a cape?”

“No,” you said.

“Yes,” Krennic said at the exact same time.

You both turned and looked at each other.

“Our first disagreement as parents,” he said flatly.

He smirked and turned back to the tailor. “We’ll get back to you about the cape. For now, just measure her.”

The tailor gave a dramatic bow. “With pleasure.”

As he moved to work, Krennic stood nearby, hands behind his back in his usual pose. Except this time, there was no military projection in his stance—just quiet pride. His eyes never strayed far from you. Even in something as mundane as a fabric fitting, he looked at you like you were the one thing in the galaxy that made everything else worth surviving.

*******

The bedroom was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the city skyline slipping through the curtains. The sheets were warm, tangled around the both of you as you lay close—his arm wrapped securely around your waist, your head resting near the crook of his shoulder. You could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, slower now, less guarded. There was something sacred about this version of him—no rank, no cape, no command. Just Orson.

Your fingers lazily traced the outline of his collarbone beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. He didn’t flinch away. He never did anymore.

“This peace,” you whispered into the stillness. “Do you think it’ll last? Sometimes it feels like... like it’s too good to be real.”

He didn’t respond right away. His hand moved gently along the curve of your back, grounding you. When he finally spoke, his voice was low but steady.

“It will last,” he said. “Because I’ll fight for it. Not with fleets or threats. Not anymore.” His fingers brushed your side, thoughtful. “I’ll fight for our son to have a childhood he never has to recover from.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was thoughtful. Honest. The kind of silence that makes you want to hold your breath just to hear what comes next.

“If there’s a chance I can stop the second Death Star,” he said, quieter now, “I’ll do it.”

You lifted your head slightly, eyes meeting his in the dim light. “You’d really do that?”

He stared at the ceiling for a moment, then let out a soft breath. “Part of me’s glad Tarkin was in charge the first time. If not, I wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t have this. Wouldn’t have you.” He turned his head toward you. “So I guess I owe him... an accidental favor. That walking skull in a uniform.”

You gave a short laugh. “Karma really worked fast with him, huh.”

He smirked, brushing your hair away from your face. “That fool spent years trying to sabotage me. And now he’s just a footnote. Meanwhile, I’m here. In bed. With you.” His smile widened. “I win.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been worse.”

You sighed, shifting slightly so your body curled tighter against his. “I hated you at first.”

“I remember,” he said, smug. “You glared at me like I ruined your life.”

“You did ruin my schedule.”

He chuckled. “You ruined my aim. Couldn’t think straight with you in the room.”

You tucked your face against his neck, your smile softening. “It doesn’t feel real. All this.”

“It is,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “It’s real. And it’s mine. I’m not letting anything take it away.”

His voice was steady, but you could feel it—just beneath the surface—his fear of losing it. The fragility of the peace you’d both clawed your way toward.

But for now, wrapped in warmth, with his arms around you and your futures pressed close, the chaos could wait. For once, the Empire was far away. And the only war left to fight was the one to keep this safe.

********

Morning sun poured through the windows in soft gold, casting a lazy glow over the bedroom as the two of you moved through the quiet ritual of getting ready for work.

You stood in front of the mirror, frowning at your reflection. The ISB uniform had never been forgiving, but now the stiffness around your midsection made you feel like the buttons were mocking you. You adjusted your belt. Still snug. Still too obvious.

From behind, you heard footsteps. Then the low, amused voice you’d grown to crave.

“You know,” Krennic said as he walked over, buttoning his own black tunic with calculated elegance, “you could always borrow one of my capes.”

You glared at his reflection in the mirror.

He gave you a slow, infuriating smile. “Dramatic. Flowing. Distraction. No one would even notice the uniform.”

“I’m not wearing your cape to the ISB.”

His hands slipped around your waist, his chest warm against your back. You felt his fingers brush along the slight swell under your uniform, his touch firm but reverent. “You’re not fat,” he said softly, his voice close to your ear. “You’re carrying our son. That uniform doesn’t deserve you.”

You gave him a look through the mirror, but his expression didn’t waver. Sincere. Devoted. Dangerous in the way only Krennic could be.

“And if anyone,” he added, his mouth brushing against your neck, “so much as breathes a single comment behind your back, I will personally vaporize them.”

You snorted. “Now that’s romantic.”

“I thought so.”

He kissed the curve of your shoulder and gave your reflection one last admiring look before stepping away to retrieve his datapad. You adjusted your belt one final time, sighed, and grabbed your coat.

*****

It was colder than usual in the ISB Headquarters, the kind of chill that made your coat feel more like armor than comfort. The halls buzzed with the usual quiet urgency—agents moving like shadows, datapads glowing in their hands.

You walked through it all, composed, untouchable, the coat covering everything you weren’t ready to show.

When you reached your department wing, you took a breath and peeled the coat off your shoulders in one smooth motion.

As you draped it across your chair, your hand brushed the curve of your stomach, the belt of your uniform resting slightly higher than it used to. A small adjustment. Barely anything. But enough.

Dedra Meero glanced up from her station across the room.

Her eyes caught the shift immediately. She didn’t stare, didn’t tilt her head. Just a flicker of awareness, sharp and silent. Then she spoke, voice calm but pointed.

“You change something in your uniform?”

You paused, fingers hovering over your console. “Belt’s riding a bit higher, maybe.”

A beat.

Then you added with practiced ease, “Guess I’m gaining weight.”

Dedra didn’t say anything right away. Her gaze lingered for a breath too long, then returned to her datapad.

She didn’t follow up. Didn’t press. She knew better.

But the question hung in the air between you like a knife on a thread.

You settled into your chair, smoothed the hem of your tunic, and logged in. Business as usual. Let them watch. Let them wonder.

None of them would say a word.

Not if they wanted to keep their careers intact. Especially when they knew who you shared a house and a bed with.

******************

The twin suns of Scarif beat down over the white sand and glistening metal of the Imperial compound. The morning had started like any other: Krennic was in his lab, datapads scattered across his desk—half showing ballistic simulations, the other half crib designs with adjustable shielding. In between weapons systems and armor plating, he’d been sketching modifications for a stroller model that could withstand atmospheric turbulence.

Work. Legacy. Parenthood. All colliding in quiet obsession.

Then the comm crackled.

“Director Krennic… incoming vessel, ID confirmed. It’s the Chimaera.”

His stylus froze mid-stroke.

He stood, tension rising in his spine as the silhouette of the massive Star Destroyer broke through Scarif’s cloudline like a blade from the heavens. Even among the Empire’s most brutal tools, the Chimaera was a masterpiece—sleek, majestic, its underbelly casting a vast shadow over the compound. The white emblem of the mythical beast sprawled across its hull glimmered like a symbol out of legend.

Grand Admiral Thrawn had arrived.

Krennic moved swiftly through the corridor, cloak flowing behind him, ignoring the stares of officers suddenly on high alert. Protocol dictated full honors.

Scarif wasn’t a common stop for Thrawn, and the man didn’t make unscheduled visits unless there was reason. Tactical, precise. Just like everything about him.

At the landing bay, rows of troopers lined up in polished formation, backs straight, boots shining. Krennic took his place at the head, jaw set, eyes narrowed as the shuttle descended.

The ramp lowered.

Thrawn emerged in white uniform, every button gleaming, hands clasped behind his back. The blue of his skin was as still and unshaken as the sea, those red eyes calmly scanning the rows before resting on Krennic.

“Director Krennic,” Thrawn greeted with a small nod. “Thank you for the welcome.”

Krennic stepped forward, dipping his head in return. “Grand Admiral. An unexpected visit.”

Thrawn’s gaze swept the horizon. “I came to deliver my thanks. To you and the ISB.”

“The ISB?” Krennic arched a brow.

“The recent fleet movements that flushed out the rebels near the Lenarian system. The intelligence drop. The timing. The coordination.” Thrawn’s voice was level, almost polite. “And your sacrifice.”

Krennic’s jaw twitched, but he held his composure. “A bold strategy. Risky. But it worked.”

“I admire boldness,” Thrawn said, his eyes steady. “Especially when it costs something real.”

“Why don’t we talk privately?” Krennic gave a tight smile.

Thrawn nodded once. “Lead the way.”

---

The door to Krennic’s private office hissed shut. The walls here were different—less polished, more personal. Holoscreens blinked quietly.

“So,” Krennic began carefully, “what’s the real reason you’re here?”

Thrawn studied him. “The Death Star.”

That name hit like a blade to the ribs.

Krennic’s hand tightened around the glass. “A tragedy,” he said, voice neutral.

“And an effective one,” Thrawn said smoothly. “It forced the rebels into the open. Their desperation revealed key operatives. It may yet be the reason this war ends.”

Krennic said nothing, watching him from across the desk.

Thrawn continued. “I heard the Emperor ordered you to begin construction on a second.”

“I haven’t started yet.”

“Good.” Thrawn tilted his head slightly. “Because I’ve come to stop you.”

The room fell into heavy silence.

Krennic’s mind went to you. To your quiet voice the night before, the way you touched your belly. If there’s a chance to stop it, I’ll take it. He hadn’t expected the chance to come so soon. And from him.

“If I remember, you weren’t a supporter of the first one,” Krennic said slowly.

Thrawn’s eyes didn’t shift. “It was… wasteful. Intimidation is one thing. Excess is another.”

Krennic grit his teeth, the words catching on old wounds. “I gave years of my life to that station.”

“And it’s gone,” Thrawn replied simply. “Tarkin is gone. The cost of replicating that project will cripple the Empire’s long-term strength.”

Krennic forced a smile, though there was no warmth in it. “I’ve also met Lord Vader. He said the same. That the Death Star was a poor investment.”

Thrawn’s gaze sharpened.

“Then you understand the strategic flaw,” he said.

Krennic’s throat tightened. He hated the feeling. Because he knew Thrawn wasn’t wrong. Because he remembered the fire. The screaming alarms. The knowledge that the thing he’d built was never truly his. That it had served Tarkin’s pride more than Imperial purpose.

He exhaled, slow and controlled. “Yes. Using Empire resources to build a station the size of a moon... wasteful. We could fortify ten systems with that.”

Thrawn smiled, just barely. “You’ve exceeded my expectations, Director Krennic. I thought you’d argue.”

“I want this rule to last,” Krennic said quietly. “Not collapse under its own weight.”

“So do I.”

They stood across from one another, both still, both calculating.

Then, with perfect synchronicity, they raised their hands in salute.

“Long live the Empire,” Thrawn said.

Krennic’s eyes were cold and clear.

“Long live the Empire.”

The room had just started to settle again when Thrawn shifted, his posture unchanged but his focus sharpening like a blade unsheathed.

“I intend to visit ISB Headquarters,” he said casually, though nothing about the man was ever casual. “To meet the propagandist stationed there.”

Krennic’s jaw tightened. A flicker passed across his face—too brief to be caught by most, but Thrawn was not most.

“You mean her,” Krennic said, tone neutral but posture suddenly too still. “You want to meet her.”

Thrawn gave the faintest nod, confirming everything without wasting syllables. “I’ve followed the reports. Her analysis during the fallout from Jedha and Cinderis, the propaganda network restructured after Alderaan... While the galaxy fractures, she has made the people calm. Angry, yes. Distrustful, certainly. But still quiet. Still manageable.”

He paused, tilting his head just slightly. “That takes precision.”

Krennic’s eyes narrowed. “She’s effective.”

“I admire the way she operates,” Thrawn continued. “She does not suppress rebellion. She redirects it. That requires... vision.”

A pause.

“I hear you’re close with her.”

Krennic stared. “Yes. Very close.”

There was a beat of silence between them. Heavy. Loaded. Thrawn studied him for a moment longer, then resumed, as if he had reached a conclusion.

“Such a mind would be an invaluable asset to the future of Imperial military development. The direction Lord Vader and I are proposing requires minds that think beyond fear.”

He turned toward the viewport, gazing into the clouded horizon outside as if seeing something far beyond it.

“You should accompany me to ISB Headquarters, Director. Your presence would be... beneficial.”

Krennic swallowed hard.

He knew what this was. Not a request. Not a suggestion. A maneuver—one that offered no exit without implication. A direct order dressed in courteous language. Typical Thrawn.

“Furthermore,” Thrawn added, his voice unchanging but his eyes cutting back to Krennic with sharp intent, “Lord Vader and I are requesting an audience with the Emperor. We believe a united front—presenting a clear, coherent strategy—may persuade him to abandon this obsession with a second battle station.”

Krennic blinked. Slowly.

“You wish to replace it with what?”

“A more sustainable military doctrine. Fleet dominance. Psychological control. Measured force. Not... spectacle,” Thrawn replied. “But in that meeting, your presence, General Krennic, would lend weight. Your experience, your loss... it would speak volumes.”

Krennic said nothing.

He could feel the compliment twisting in his gut like a blade. It wasn't false praise. That made it worse. Thrawn wasn’t Tarkin—he didn’t condescend, he didn’t need to.

Krennic’s fingers curled slightly against the edge of his desk.

So this was the game now. Not sabotage. Not brute competition. This was chess. Elegant, quiet, efficient—and far more dangerous than Tarkin’s pissing contests.

He hated it.

And yet...

Perhaps this was the very sign he'd been waiting for. Perhaps it was time to officially start shaping a legacy that wasn’t built on annihilation.

He took a slow breath.

“Very well,” Krennic said at last. “I’ll accompany you.”

Thrawn’s nod was as thin as a blade’s edge. “Excellent.”

But even he had to admit... this was the moment.

The shift.

The chance.

He straightened, brushing the tension from his shoulders with sheer willpower. “If the goal is stability,” Krennic said, voice measured, “then I’ll lend my voice. But understand this—what you call waste, I still call legacy.”

Thrawn gave a faint smile, unreadable and perfect.

“Then let’s ensure your next legacy doesn’t detonate under its own ambition.”

***********

The mood at the ISB headquarters shifted the moment the message arrived.

“Grand Admiral Thrawn and General-Director Krennic is en route.”

The air inside the command corridors snapped taut like a tripwire. The chatter died. Even those who had been deep in field analysis straightened without realizing it. The legendary name needed no explanation.

Every officer knew him—not just his title, but his reputation. The man who turned enemy empires into study cases. The one who predicted rebellions from brushstrokes and dismantled planetary governments with five-word orders.

He was feared. Admired. Watched like a hawk made of glass.

Partagaz stepped out of his office, eyes sweeping across the agents assembling in the main briefing hall.

“This is not a routine visit,” he said coolly. “You will behave like professionals, and you will remember your ranks. Clear your desks. Secure all unauthorized data. You will not waste the Grand Admiral’s time.”

No one spoke. Even Heert forgot to blink.

By the time the doors opened, the entire ISB HQ stood frozen in quiet dread. And then the world seemed to hold its breath.

Thrawn entered first. Composed. Smooth. A silhouette carved from cold logic and battle. Krennic walked beside him, sharp in his uniform, face unreadable. The contrast between them—one calm like deep water, the other tense like a coiled fuse—was almost too much to bear.

The air thickened.

Partagaz stepped forward immediately, offering a crisp bow. “Grand Admiral. Director Krennic. Headquarters is honored.”

Thrawn’s eyes swept the room like a scalpel. “Thank you, Supervisor Partagaz. Your records are… efficient.”

Beside you, Krennic didn't place a hand behind your back, but you felt the weight of his presence—solid, protective, simmering with something territorial. His nearness was electric, especially when the eyes of the room followed Thrawn’s measured steps.

Thrawn’s gaze moved slowly, pausing on you. Then on Dedra.

“Agent Meero,” he said. “Your work in identifying Axis… effective. Calculated. You saw what others didn’t.”

Dedra blinked, straightening. “Thank you, Grand Admiral.”

Then his gaze returned to you.

“And you,” Thrawn said, tone almost curious. “The strategist behind the containment protocols on Denorai and the propaganda dampening during the outer rim riots. The Empire has many tacticians. Fewer with restraint.”

You met his gaze, even though your heartbeat echoed in your ears. “Thank you, sir.”

The five of you stood in a small, sharp circle—Partagaz, Dedra, you, Krennic, and Thrawn. The room was clinical, dimly lit by panels above. Yet the pressure was suffocating. Not from what was said, but from what hadn’t been.

Thrawn stood like a shadow dressed in brilliance, his eyes assessing every muscle twitch, every breath, every hesitation. “The Emperor has summoned both Lord Vader and myself for strategic recommendations regarding the future of Imperial defense. I intend to speak plainly,” he said, voice calm. “The second Death Star is an indulgent misallocation of resources. I intend to argue against it.”

You blinked, startled.

Of all people, he was against the Death Star?

Then, from the corner of your vision, you saw Krennic. He wasn’t reacting with defensiveness. No bitterness. No flare of pride. Just… stillness. His blue eyes locked on you, and he gave the smallest nod. Agreement.

Your pulse kicked harder. Is this really happening? Grand Admiral Thrawn—arguably the most brilliant tactician in the fleet with Director Krennic, and for once, they shared the same view.

You wouldn't waste this opportunity.

“Fear works,” you said, your voice even. “But only for a moment. The Death Star was a beacon. It screamed power. But now the rebels have the perfect narrative. A weapon so massive it devoured itself. If we repeat that mistake, we won't just lose planets—we’ll lose loyalty.”

Thrawn tilted his head slightly, listening.

“We need layered dominance,” you continued. “Mobile strike fleets, decentralized control centers, flexible enforcement cells. We don’t need another moon-sized target. We need a shadow the rebellion can’t outpace.”

Silence.

Then Thrawn’s lips curved, just barely. “Tactical. Focused. You see the long game.”

Thrawn tilted his head slightly. For the first time, you saw something close to admiration touch his expression. “Tactically sound,” he said. “Did you study The Art of Strategy?”

You gave a small smile. “No. I grew up in war. I couldn’t fight. So I learned how to win with words.”

He didn’t laugh. But his eyes narrowed slightly. He was impressed. Thoroughly.

“I could use someone like you on my staff.”

The words were soft. Almost offhand. But they landed like a seismic pulse in the room.

Before you could respond, you felt Krennic’s hand slide to your lower back. Not casual. Not polite. Possessive.

“No,” he said flatly.

Thrawn’s brow rose. “No?”

“She can’t take on heavy work these days,” Krennic said. His voice was low and measured, but the tension behind it was unmistakable. He didn’t care that Thrawn outranked him. This wasn’t about hierarchy. This was about you.

“Why?” Thrawn studied him.

Krennic stepped closer. His hand spread slightly across the small of your back, a gesture that was both protective and territorial.

“Because she’s pregnant,” he said.

The words dropped like a blaster shot.

Silence detonated through the room.

Even you froze.

Your eyes snapped to him, heart leaping straight into your throat. He said it. He just said it. Not in private. Not to a friend. To Thrawn. To the Empire.

Thrawn’s mouth curved, just barely. A chuckle. Dry. Icy. Amused in a way that made your stomach twist.

“Well,” he said, eyes flicking from you to Krennic. “That’s unexpected.”

He turned to you, nodding with calculated calm. “Congratulations.”

You blushed, trying to keep your expression composed.

Partagaz straightened. “Congratulations. To both of you,” he echoed, first at you, then at Krennic. Even Dedra looked away—perhaps out of shock, perhaps envy.

Thrawn’s gaze shifted, piecing it together. “Ah,” he said, eyes flicking between the two of you. “You two… Remarkable. The heir, then, will inherit the genius of both parents. A formidable combination, Director Krennic with the best Propagandist of the Empire."

“Thank you, Grand Admiral Thrawn,” Krennic replied, his hand still steady on your back, like he was anchoring you to him. Not for you, but for himself. Because this moment wasn’t just about a child. It was about legacy, power, and the woman who had become the center of Krennic’s entire world.

And for the first time, in the heart of the Empire’s coldest walls, it was no longer a matter of strategy. It was something dangerously close to hope.

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