Private Jack of Spades | Elian

[Renn Vizsla]

P R I N C E

Tag: Elian Abrantes




Naboo’s morning light carried a softness Renn rarely found elsewhere in the galaxy. It slid over the marble towers like warm breath on steel, gilding every archway and garden terrace in a pale gold that felt too gentle for a warrior raised under harsher suns. Yet it suited this world, refined, proud, and deceptively peaceful.

He fastened the last clasp of his cuirass with a muted click. Beskar did not gleam the way Naboo’s gilded armor did; his plate drank the light instead, blue-steel and brushed silver absorbing the dawn like an old predator awakening. The palace attendants had offered him a more “court-appropriate” training uniform. He had declined with a smile. The Prince of Naboo would learn to face a Mandalorian, not a court ornament.

Renn adjusted the leather wraps at his wrists, then reached for the duffel resting at the edge of the guest chamber. It held practice gear, training sabers, shock-batons, weighted gauntlets, tools chosen carefully for a youth with courage but not yet the discipline to match it. Elian reminded him of many young Mandalorians he had overseen on Roon: sharp, restless, eager to prove himself despite not yet knowing what, exactly, he wanted to become.

And Sibylla Abrantes had asked this of him, not as a Queen, but as an older sister.

That mattered.

Renn stepped from the chamber into the palace corridor, his boots clicking against polished stone mosaics depicting Naboo’s ancient victories. Courtiers moved aside instinctively; some bowed, some stared, a few whispered behind gloved fingers. Mandalorians were still an uncommon sight in Theed, let alone within the upper halls of Varynth Court. Renn took the scrutiny in stride. He had endured far worse crowds and far bloodier arenas than this.

A pair of Royal Guards shadowed him at a respectful distance as he descended the grand stairway. Outside, manicured gardens opened into a broad, open-air terrace overlooking the river. Ahead, the training grounds waited: a sand-floored arena bordered by marble balustrades, ringed with aging statues of long-dead kings and warriors. Sunlight poured over the space as though the Force itself meant to shine a spotlight on today’s lesson.

Renn paused at the threshold, taking in a slow breath. Naboo’s air was cleaner, gentler. It reminded him, uncomfortably, of what peace was supposed to feel like.

Fitting, he thought. A boy should learn strength here, where it is not needed, before life demands it of him elsewhere.

He set the duffel down at the edge of the arena and began laying out the training implements in neat, orderly lines. The prince would arrive soon, bright-eyed, a little overconfident, too quick to speak before thinking. Renn found himself almost looking forward to it.

Almost.

He straightened, hands resting loosely on the rim of his belt.

“Come on then, young prince,” he murmured under his breath, the faintest hint of amusement threading his voice. “Let’s see what spirit Naboo has forged in you.”

Time to Learn.​

 

[Elian Abrantes]

Renn Vizsla
​

Elian arrived late.

Not actually late just late enough to make an entrance, the way only an Abrantes could without ever seeming disrespectful. The young noble's boots skidded slightly on the polished stone as he rounded the corner into the terrace, curls wind-tossed, a half-eaten meiloorun pastry in one hand and a training tunic only mostly fastened. Sunlight caught in the dark green embroidery at his collar, making it gleam like he had planned it that way.

He hadn't. But he would never admit that.

He spotted Renn immediately, the Mandalorian armor was impossible to miss , and a grin broke across his face, bright, earnest, and bordering on mischievous.

Shiraya save me, he thought with a flicker of nerves he'd never show aloud, he looks like he could break the marble with a shrug.

But that didn't stop him as nothing much ever did.

"Good morning!" Elian called as he jogged the last few steps into the arena

He planted his hands on his hips in a pose far too heroic for someone whose tunic was still crooked.

To anyone watching, he radiated that particular Abrantes brand of confidence the kind born from mountain air, old nobility, and a dash of reckless charm. But beneath it flickered something truer, something quieter: a fierce desire to be worthy of this training, of his sister's trust, of his house's legacy.

He stepped into the sunlight, letting the warmth roll across his shoulders, letting himself breathe the open-air ease of Naboo

"Well," he said, eyes glinting with that unmistakable Abrantes spark, "Shall we show Theed, what an unstoppable duo looks like?"

Carefree. Excitable. Absolutely not a prince.

But very much Elian Abrantes.

 

[Renn Vizsla]

L E S S O N S

Tag: Elian Abrantes




Renn didn’t answer the greeting.

He didn’t need to.

The moment Elian stepped fully into the arena, chin high, tunic crooked, pastry crumbs still dusting his fingertips, Renn moved.

No warning.

No ceremony.

Just a sudden, explosive burst of motion as the Mandalorian launched forward, closing the distance in a heartbeat.

The boy barely had time for his grin to falter.

Renn’s shoulder drove squarely into Elian’s midsection with the force and precision of an artillery round, the unmistakable, bone-rattling execution of a spear. The air whooshed out of the prince in a surprised bark as Renn carried him several paces across the sand, momentum unbroken.

Only when he was certain the lesson would land, both physically and figuratively, did Renn release him.

Elian hit the ground with a dusty thump, legs tangled, pastry flying from his hand in a tragic arc of defeated breakfast.

Renn straightened smoothly, stepping back just enough to loom over the boy without blocking the sun.

Silence stretched for a heartbeat, then two.

When he spoke, his voice was calm.

Not unkind.

But unmistakably Mandalorian.

“Two lessons,” Renn said, hands folding behind his back. “Punctuality.” A pause. “And awareness.”

He tilted his head slightly, just enough to let the weight of the moment settle.

“You were neither early nor ready. An enemy would not wait for you to finish your pastry.”

He let that sink in before taking a single step back, giving Elian room to rise but not rescuing him from the undignified scramble that would inevitably follow.

The faintest hint of amusement edged into his voice, dry, almost invisible.

“On your feet, Prince Abrantes. Let’s make an entrance worth the mountain air you boast of.”

The training had officially begun.​

 

[Elian Abrantes]

Renn Vizsla
​

Elian lay there for a moment, blinking up at the pale Naboo sky as dust settled around him like embarrassed confetti.

His lungs refused to work properly. His dignity had fled the scene entirely. And somewhere off to the side, his poor pastry completed its slow descent into the afterlife. Okay, he thought, so that's how this is going to go.

He rolled to his side with a pained groan that he would later deny ever making. His ribs protested, the sand clung to him in places sand had no business being. But must of all....

Elian frowned as he laid on his stomach and looked at his pastry a few few away from him. "My pastry....." He voiced in an almost sad tone. He pushed himself upright, coughing once, twice, then managed a rough, breathless laugh as he swiped grit from his cheek.

"Well," he rasped, bracing his hands on his knees, "Good morning to you too." He rose the rest of the way with all the elegance of a kicked-over scarecrow, but once fully standing, he straightened his tunic, brushed at the sand, and lifted his chin with defiant, dashing intent.

Elian's smile sharpened faintly.

"Awareness, lesson one," he muttered under his breath as he flexed his sore midsection. "Right. No more leisurely entrances, and being late."

He stepped forward, boots sinking slightly into the sand, posture finding its familiar mix of confidence and barely-contained kinetic energy. Despite his throbbing ribs, he met Renn's gaze head on a boy bruised, dusty, and wholly unbowed.

"And just to clarify," he said with a smirk as he drew breath, "I'm not a prince."

He tilted his head, the grin returning in full, reckless force. "But I am an Abrantes. Which means I get up. And I improvise."

His eyes gleamed with challenge, humor, and the stubborn, mountain-forged spirit his family was infamous for. "So, Master Mandalorian…" Elian squared his shoulders, lifted his hands, and settled, finally, into a ready stance. "Lesson three?"

His smile widened.

"Because I'd really like to try to hit you back now."

 

[Renn Vizsla]

S T R I K E

Tag: Elian Abrantes




Renn watched the prince rise with a stillness far too deliberate to be casual. Sand hissed quietly off his armor as the breeze moved through the arena. Not once did he reach out to help Elian up This was training, not pampering, but there was an unmistakable note of approval in the slow tilt of his helmet.

The boy had spirit.

Good.

He was going to need it.

When Elian mourned the pastry, Renn’s head angled toward the fallen treat as though honoring a fallen warrior. A beat of silence. Then, dry as desert dust:

“Let its sacrifice not be in vain.”

He stepped forward, boots sinking into the sand with quiet weight. Elian squared himself, chin high, ribs sore, but eyes bright with that Abrantes fire.

The Mandalorian circled him once, measured, predatory, yet somehow instructional, as if assessing not the boy’s stance, but his resolve. When he spoke again, his voice held the resonance of hammered beskar.

“Good,” he said. “You stand. You adapt.”

He paused directly in front of Elian, close enough that the boy could see his own reflection warping in the silver-blue of the visor.

“Now hear this: You claim you are not a prince.”

A faint, almost there edge entered his tone. “But titles don’t matter. Only the weight you choose to carry.”

Renn stepped back, giving Elian space, just enough.

He lowered into a stance of his own: relaxed knees, grounded posture, hands loose but ready. A posture that said plainly, You may strike. You will fail. But you will learn.

“Lesson Three,” he declared, voice steady as foundry stone.

“Initiative.”

He tapped two fingers lightly against his chestplate.

“If you want to hit me…”

A subtle shift, daring him.

“…then do it with intention. Not hope.”

A breath. The wind stirred the sand between them.

“Come, Abrantes.”

Renn’s stance opened like the gate of a fortress inviting the storm.

“Show me what improvisation truly means.”​

 

[Elian Abrantes]

Renn Vizsla
​

Elian's pulse hammered in his ears the moment the invitation left Renn's lips.

Initiative.

Right. He could do initiative. Probably. Hopefully. He drew one slow breath, steadying the flutter in his ribs where the Mandalorian's earlier charge still burned like a brand. Pain wasn't new he'd collected his fair share from sparring, mountain hikes gone wrong, the occasional overly ambitious dare, but this felt different. Sharper. Cleaner. The kind of pain that promised growth if he didn't flinch from it.

He lifted his hands, fingers flexing once as he settled into the stance Renn had yet to correct him on. Shoulders loose. Feet braced. Weight forward, but not over-committed. The sand shifted beneath his boots, warm and familiar, like the vineyards after a long summer day.

His mind ran through possibilities, a feint left, a dash right, a reckless leap that would get him flattened again, but the longer he stood there thinking, the more he heard the Mandalorian's voice in his head.

Intention. Not hope.

Elian exhaled, clearing the static from his thoughts.

Then he moved.

He surged forward with a burst of speed fueled more by heart than technique, driving straight across the sand. His feet kicked up small clouds behind him as he closed the distance, aiming low, then shifting high in the last instant a feint layered onto instinct, the messy kind of improvisation he excelled at. His hand shot out, fingers curled into a strike meant for the armored chestplate. It wouldn't do much. He knew that. He wasn't foolish enough to think he'd move a Mandalorian with a single blow.

But that wasn't the point. He wasn't striking in hope. He was striking in declaration.

A declaration that he would not back down. That he would rise again and again. That he would stand in the sand of a Naboo morning bruised, dusty, and grinning and choose to be better than he was the day before.

Elian's expression sharpened with fierce resolve as his momentum carried him into the opening he'd committed to. Whether the strike landed or failed spectacularly, his spirit was already moving forward. And that, for an Abrantes, was the real hit.

 

[Renn Vizsla]

L E S S O N S

Tag: Elian Abrantes




Renn saw the intention the moment it sparked.

Not in Elian’s stance, still raw.

Not in his technique, still forming.

But in the shift behind his eyes.

Good.

Elian burst forward with more courage than precision, sand snapping beneath each step. Renn didn’t retreat. He didn’t counter early. He simply watched the approach with the calm of a mountain waiting for a storm to collide with it.

Elian feinted low.

Shifted high.

Better, Renn noted. Messy, but carried by conviction.

As the boy’s strike arced toward his chestplate, Renn’s right hand shot up in a clean, fluid line, open palm to forearm, catching the blow mid-motion. The impact thudded against beskar, harmless, but the technique behind the block? Impeccably Mandalorian.

Renn absorbed the momentum, redirected it, and let Elian’s forward drive carry him one step too far.

Then the world flipped.

Renn twisted at the hip, swept his leg low and sharp across the sand, hooking behind Elian’s ankles with perfect timing. The prince’s balance vanished in a heartbeat. His feet left the ground, the sky traded places with the arena floor, and the morning sun became a spinning blur.

Elian hit the sand in a solid, breath-stealing thump.

Renn straightened from the sweep with not a grain of dust on him.

He looked down at the boy, again, and spoke with that infuriatingly calm tone only Mandalorians and certain philosophers seemed to be born knowing.

“Your intention was there.”

“Your footing was not.”

He allowed one step back, giving Elian room to breathe, ribs still aching from earlier.

“Initiative means choosing when to commit,”

Renn tapped the outer edge of his boot lightly against the sand where Elian’s stance had faltered.

“and knowing when the ground does not belong to you.”

A faint humored edge colored his words, subtle, but present.

“You improvised. Good.”

A gentle tilt of his head.

“Now learn to recover faster.”

He gestured with a single hand, firm, expectant.

“Up, Abrantes.”

The lesson was far from over.​

 

[Elian Abrantes]

Renn Vizsla
​

Elian's lungs protested the landing before his pride could. The world steadied in a dizzy spin of gold light and sand, and he lay there just long enough to remember what breathing felt like. Naboo's air had never seemed so thin.

Then, because an Abrantes didn't stay down when there was an audience, even an armored one, he laughed. A low, winded sound that carried more stubborn amusement than humiliation.

Footing, he thought, dragging one hand through the sand beside him. Fine. I'll remember the ground next time.

His ribs ached, his shoulder burned, and his body screamed at him to stay still, but there was something exhilarating about the rhythm of it, fall, rise, fall again. Every bruise felt like proof that he was learning, shaping himself into something sharper.

He pressed his palms into the sand and pushed, the strain running through his arms, his abdomen, all the way to the base of his spine. Each movement came slower than he wanted, but steadier than before. His breath caught halfway up, then evened out again.

By the time he stood, the grin had returned, smaller now, tempered by the sting of reality, but no less bright. The kind of grin that said this isn't over, not by a long shot. Elian dusted the sand from his sleeves with a quick, defiant flick of his wrist.

Recover faster, he repeated silently, squaring his shoulders, setting his stance again with deliberate care. His weight shifted properly this time, balanced through his heels, ready for whatever came next. And though his pulse still raced and his chest still throbbed, Elian Abrantes smiled like someone who'd just remembered exactly why he'd shown up in the first place.

Elian advanced again, switching things up. trying to catch him off guard.

Unlikely.....

 

[Renn Vizsla]

S H O R T

Tag: Elian Abrantes




Elian’s grin should have warned him.

Not because it was cocky, though it certainly was, but because it burned with that reckless Abrantes spark that spoke: I’m going to do something stupid and call it bravery.

Renn braced.

The boy surged forward again, shifting angles, footwork tighter this time, lighter, quicker, a real attempt to catch the Mandalorian off guard. It wasn’t a bad approach. It wasn’t good enough, either.

Renn didn’t meet the charge.

He stepped aside.

Clean. Effortless. The way water steps aside for a thrown stone.

Elian’s momentum carried him past Renn by half a stride,

And that was all the Mandalorian needed.

In a flash of precise, controlled movement, Renn slipped in behind him. One arm hooked under Elian’s right, the other under his left, locking behind the boy’s head. A perfect full nelson, seamless and absolute. The boy's feet left the sand for a breath before Renn grounded him again, holding him firm, not to hurt, but to halt him.

Elian struggled out of instinct. Renn tightened just enough to remind him that resistance, in this position, was meaningless.

Then he spoke.

Low. Steady.

A voice made of beskar and brutal truth.

“Life is not a game, Elian.”

He felt the boy stiffen slightly under the hold.

“If you keep treating it like one…”

Renn leaned down, his words close enough that Elian could feel the vibration of each syllable.

“…yours will end up shorter than most.”

A pause, just long enough for the prince to really hear it.

“And not because you stopped growing.”

Renn did not release him yet. He let the tension sit, let the lesson weigh itself onto Elian’s spine as surely as his arms held his shoulders.

Then, more quietly, but no less firm:

“You rise well. You adapt well. But if you rush headlong without respecting the danger…”

His grip shifted, loosening deliberately.

“…the galaxy will break you faster than I ever could.”

He released the hold, stepping back with the same fluid ease with which he’d executed it.

Renn crossed his arms over his chestplate, visor fixed on the young noble.

“Again.”

A breath.

“This time, think before you leap.”

A moment.

“…and try hitting me without handing me your back.”

The challenge was set.​

 

[Elian Abrantes]

Renn Vizsla
​

Elian stood there for a long moment, chest rising and falling as the words hung in the air between them.

He could still feel the ghost of Renn's hold across his shoulders the pressure, the restraint, the weight of the truth behind it. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to make some clever remark to hide the sting. But instead, he found himself… quiet.

When he finally spoke, his voice came low, rough around the edges, but steady. "Yeah," he said, nodding once, more to himself than to Renn. "You're right. Life isn't a game."

He drew a breath and met the Mandalorian's visor directly, not flinching this time.

"But I'm not gonna forget to laugh, either." His mouth curved slightly, not into his usual grin, but something truer, smaller, grounded in the simple fact of who he was. "I'm not going to turn into one of those serious robots who forget what living feels like. Life's meant to be lived. To feel things. To fall, get up, try again, maybe look ridiculous doing it."

He let out a breath that sounded a lot like a laugh, though softer, quieter. "But I get what you're saying. I do."

For once, there was no bravado in his tone, no glint of challenge behind his words. Just a young man accepting that strength wasn't all about motion, that sometimes, it was about stillness too.

He rolled his shoulders back, grounding his stance again. His boots settled into the sand more firmly this time, weight balanced, breath even. He reached out slowly, not charging, not leaping, just testing the distance between them, feeling the rhythm of the air, the balance in his body, the pulse of the moment.

His hand extended steady, focused, patient.

"Alright," he said, more to the lesson than to the man. "Let's try this again." He moved forward, doing as he was instructed, not exposing his back and keeping a strong center of gravity as he left a series of strikes and attacks towards him.

 

[Renn Vizsla]

L E A R N I N G

Tag: Elian Abrantes




Renn did not interrupt the boy’s words.

He stood there, arms loose at his sides, visor fixed on Elian with the silent patience of a glacier watching a river find its course. Only when the prince stepped in, measured this time, and controlled did Renn shift his stance.

Elian’s first strike came forward, deliberate and centered.

Renn caught it on the flat of his palm with a muted thock.

The second, angled to the ribs, was blocked by a simple turn of the forearm.

The third, quicker, testing, was deflected with a quiet flick of the wrist that sent the boy’s momentum drifting aside without force or flourish.

He didn’t counter.

Not yet.

Every block from Renn was clean, minimal, efficient, honoring the intent behind each strike, even when they lacked refinement. And through it all, he watched. Assessed. Measured.

When Elian stepped back to reset his feet, Renn finally spoke.

“Better.”

That single word held weight, approval earned, not given.

Then, after a heartbeat:

“But you chase the strike instead of letting the moment come to you.”

Another block, guiding Elian’s latest blow away with almost lazy precision.

“Your center is stronger now. But your shoulders tense before every attack. That tells your opponent what you’re about to do.”

He tapped the boy’s forearm lightly with the back of a knuckle, just enough to draw attention to the habit.

“Relax this. Let your movement come from your core, not your arms.”

When Elian adjusted, Renn saw it instantly.

The next strike? Still blocked, but it had promise.

Renn stepped back, giving him space, lowering his hands but not his guard.

His voice came quieter now, not gentler, but truer.

“And Elian…”

A pause, as if ensuring the boy was listening.

“…there’s nothing wrong with living. With laughing. With joy.”

He tilted his head.

“But know when the tone must change.”

A breath.

“If you laugh through every moment, every danger, every duty, people will not know when you are sincere.”

He let that hang, not as rebuke, but as guidance.

“Your spirit is bright. Good.”

He took a step closer, boots whispering through the sand.

“But sharpen it. Choose when to wield it, and when to sheath it. Otherwise, others will think you wear joy like armor.”

Then, with a shift of stance, grounded, wide, unmistakably Mandalorian, he raised a hand.

Not to strike.

But to invite.

“Again.”

A nod to the boy’s feet.

“Balance your center. Keep your shoulders loose. And this time, attack with truth, not noise.”

Renn braced.

The lesson continued, and the day was far from done.​

 

[Elian Abrantes]

Renn Vizsla
​

Elian's pulse steadied in time with his breath. For the first time since the lesson began, the sound of his heartbeat didn't drown out his thoughts. He could feel the rhythm now, the shift of his weight, the play of balance through his heels, the line of energy that ran from his center to his hands. When Renn spoke, he listened. Really listened. Not just to the words, but to what they meant. He adjusted, shoulders easing, letting tension slide away like sand through his fingers.

The correction about his arms drew a small, rueful smile. "Right. Less telegraphing. More control," he muttered to himself, rolling his wrist once before settling back into stance.

Then Renn's next words struck something deeper joy as armor.

He swallowed. "Yeah," he said quietly, more thoughtful now, voice losing its usual playful edge. "I know what you mean. Sometimes it's easier to laugh first. Keeps people from looking too close."

He glanced down at his hands, flexed them once, grounding himself again. "But I'll learn to use it better. Not hide behind it."

He looked back up, a steadier fire in his gaze this time. "Still not giving up the laughing, though," he added, a small, sincere grin returning. "It's the only thing that keeps me from turning into a statue like the ones around the palace."

When his hands came up, it wasn't for show. There was no excess motion, no wasted bravado. Just intent, clear, centered, and quietly determined. This time, when he struck, it wasn't a challenge to impress or provoke. It was a conversation, between strength and restraint, between lesson and learner, between who he had been at the start of the morning and who he was becoming with each breath.

He moved with purpose, not noise.

And through it, Elian Abrantes began to understand what truth in motion really meant.

 

[Renn Vizsla]

T R U T H

Tag: Elian Abrantes




Renn felt the shift before Elian even moved.

Not in stance.

Not in breath.

But in intent, quiet, steady, sharpened by understanding rather than bravado. The boy’s shoulders loosened, his center grounded, and for the first time, his movements carried a clarity that made the Mandalorian’s visor tilt ever so slightly in acknowledgment.

When Elian spoke, truly spoke, Renn listened.

The honesty about laughter as armor.

About letting people too close.

About choosing to change, not hide.

Few warriors, few men, recognized that truth so young.

So Renn answered him not as an instructor to a student, nor as a Mandalorian to a noble, but as one warrior to another.

“Insight like that…” he said quietly, blocking Elian’s latest strike with smooth, measured precision, “…is rarer than strength.”

Another strike, clean, intentional. Renn redirected it gently, not breaking the rhythm.

“And the willingness to improve?”

He caught Elian’s wrist with the barest touch, guiding it into a better angle.

“That is what separates a survivor from a casualty.”

He stepped back, giving Elian space, watching the young man settle into a stance that was no longer imitation,

but his.

There was pride in Renn’s tone. Subtle, but unmistakable.

“You learn well, Abrantes.”

A breath.

“And you learn honestly. That matters more than any blow you land.”

Elian’s next movement flowed forward, smooth as river-water, earnest as sunrise. Not perfect, but real. Renn blocked, then countered lightly, then blocked again, letting the exchange become less instruction and more rhythm.

Less correction.

More conversation.

The training ground filled with the soft thuds of sand, the cadence of breath, the quiet exchange of motion between teacher and student, until the lesson became something deeper than combat.

A young noble finding truth in discipline.

A Mandalorian finding respect in potential.

At last, Renn lowered his guard just slightly, not ending the lesson, but easing it, letting it settle like dust after a storm.

His voice rumbled low.

“Hold on to your laughter, Elian.”

A faint, rare warmth softened the edge of his tone.

“Just learn when to let others see the man beneath it.”

He stepped forward again, gesture inviting the next round, the next breath, the next lesson,

and as they moved, the rhythm carried them onward, training weaving into the golden Naboo morning until the shapes of their movements blurred into a steady, purposeful dance.

The sun rose higher.

Their footfalls softened.

Instruction faded into instinct.​

 

[Elian Abrantes]

Renn Vizsla
​

Elian caught his breath between movements, feeling the rhythm settle into him like something remembered rather than newly learned. The sting in his ribs and the ache in his arms were still there, but they no longer felt like defeat. They felt earned.

Renn's words carried through the space between them, measured and sure. Insight is rarer than strength. Learn honestly.

Each phrase landed heavier than the hits themselves. And for once, Elian didn't try to parry them with humor. He absorbed them, letting them sink deep enough to matter but not deep enough to wound.

When Renn said he learned well, recognition had stirred inside him. He reset his stance, not thinking about form or appearance now, but about balance, of movement, of self, of the lesson that had taken root.

"Alright," he said softly, not to fill the silence, but to keep myself centered. "I'll keep it. The laughter, the lessons… all of it."

He met the visor without flinching, a faint, wry curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But I think I'm starting to get it. The trick isn't choosing between the two. It's knowing when each belongs."

His shoulders loosened, his steps adjusted, and when he moved again it wasn't a strike, it was flow. It wasn't forced, frantic or erratic. The kind of movement that didn't ask permission to exist.

He reached forward, light and deliberate, finding the space where the Mandalorian's block would meet him. The connection wasn't impact this time, it was understanding.

Elian smiled, breath steady, heart clear. "Let's keep going," he said, voice low but full of quiet resolve.

He shifted forward, ready, balanced, the laughter still alive behind his focus but tempered now, steady and true. He moved forward fully closing the distance pressing the attack.

 

[Renn Vizsla]

T E M P E R

Tag: Elian Abrantes




Renn met Elian’s advance without haste.

The prince closed the distance smoothly now, no rush, no flare of bravado, just controlled intent carried forward on steady feet. Renn raised his guard and answered each movement in turn: a forearm block that redirected rather than stopped, a half-step pivot that let Elian’s momentum slide past instead of collide, a light tap at the wrist to remind him where his opening still lingered.

There was no punishment in the responses this time.

Only guidance.

“Good,” Renn said quietly as he deflected another strike, his voice calm beneath the rhythm of motion. “You’re not forcing it anymore.”

Elian pressed again, earnest, focused. Renn gave ground by inches, letting the exchange breathe. When he finally stopped the advance, it was with a firm but measured brace of the hands, steel against flesh, immovable without being cruel.

“You’re starting to listen to yourself,” Renn continued. “That’s what balance actually is. Not silence. Not noise. Knowing which voice matters in the moment.”

He eased the pressure, stepping back, lowering his hands, not surrender, but closure.

The morning light had shifted while they trained. The sun now sat higher over the marble balustrades, warming the sand beneath their boots. The arena no longer felt like a proving ground. It felt like a beginning.

Renn studied Elian for a long moment, visor unreadable, posture relaxed at last.

“You have heart,” he said. “And you have the sense to shape it instead of wasting it.”

A breath.

“That will keep you alive longer than any title ever could.”

He turned slightly, reaching down to retrieve the training gear he’d set aside earlier, signaling the end without ceremony.

“We’ll stop here for today.”

Not because Elian was finished, but because the lesson had landed.

Renn inclined his head once, a Mandalorian gesture of earned respect.

“Remember what you learned,” he said. “Out here, and beyond these grounds.”

The wind stirred the sand between them. Naboo breathed on, peaceful and unaware of how much had shifted in a single morning.

Renn stepped away from the center of the arena, the lesson complete, leaving Elian standing taller than when he’d arrived, not in posture alone, but in understanding.