To Save the World That Cast Me Out

I was exiled to the Chaos, where the routes all break and burn, A name too long for Basic—Mitth’raw’nuruodo—still I return. On an uncharted shore I stepped from ash and doubt, White uniform a vow, not pride—just choosing how to fight it out. A translator from the Rim read Sy Bisti in my mouth, While Parck weighed every move, the Emperor weighed my worth. I offered maps of nightmares in the dark beyond your charts, I promised you my tactics; I hid my people’s hearts. I learned your art to read your wars, every color, every line— To save the ones who sent me off, I crossed the grand divide. If banishment’s the price for seeing threats before they rise, Then carve the debt in durasteel; I’ll pay it with my life. I’m the storm in the calm, the blue in the white— An exile who chose the Empire to keep his own alive. Call me Thrawn in your tongue, but hear my oath aloud: I serve to shield a frozen home that turned its captain out. If you curse my rank, then curse it with the truth: I wear this crest to guard the stars that once abandoned me and you. A beast beneath the keel, etched into the hull, A memory of origins, coiled, watchful, cold. I met a swan of night on Batonn’s razor edge, I offered him a place among the Chiss to turn the tide ahead. He asked me what I fought for; I answered, “What you can’t see— The masters of enslavement, the shadows past the gleam.” Children steering through the dark, sky‑walkers by our side, Stolen by the nameless hands that teach the mind to hide. So I bartered with an empire for the weapons and the reach, While keeping back the paths that led to Csilla’s sleeping keeps. If treason is a vector drawn between two blazing suns, Then judge me by the lives I save when all the math is done. I’m the storm in the calm, the blue in the white— An exile who chose the Empire to keep his own alive. Call me Thrawn in your tongue, but hear my oath aloud: I serve to shield a frozen home that turned its captain out. If you doubt my aim, then study what I do: I move the board to block the threat that’s coming first for you. Defenders clipped for planet‑killers, politics for war, A garden where the Emperor asks which flag I’m fighting for. I speak in measured syllables; I think in shapes and hues— A culture is a war map if you learn to read its truths. Keep the routes, The Chaos. The Grysks in hidden swarms. Keep the routes concealed. Keep Ascendancy unharmed. Eli, take the journal. Carry home the signs. Ar’alani—hold the line. Hold the line. I’m the storm in the calm, the blue in the white— An exile who chose the Empire to keep his own alive. Write “traitor” in your ledgers; history will grind it out: I bled a thousand victories to buy my people’s route. So sing my name in Basic if you must to understand— Mitth’raw’nuruodo swore to save his banishing homeland. When the art is finally silent and the pieces all align, You’ll see the pattern in the dark—why I crossed the line.