Private Thrantin: Iron Sharpens Iron

[Lysander von Ascania]

Acier Moonbound​

The roll told him enough. An absence of a counter was louder than a hook or anything else would’ve been. Plenty of fighters didn’t trust their own position. From experience, those who felt threatened always wanted to answer. Of course, he was one of them under the right circumstances. At least the former Jedi had good structure, doing his job; Lysander didn’t want an easy fight, as there would be nothing to gain from it.

Some chased hands, some protected the pocket.

Feedback traveled up his forearm as knuckles met friction. The blonde’s gaze was soft as the next exchange began to form, and just let the rhythm keep talking.

Acier’s shoulder pulled a response; his lead side tightened, forearm bracing while eyes tracked the line; but, that wasn’t to say it was panic. The pressure was felt, pressing into his frame. Lysander had no problem answering honestly to that either; knees bent, center down a fraction or so, wanting to accept it instead of resisting.

So, that jab landed right where it was meant to, settling right back into his guard. Thrantin's gravity even added a little more presure to it too.

But that was as far as it went.

When he finished shifting forward, that space would breathe again. Then, a step back. Through the motion his stance was narrow, hips under him. Breathing would remain calm through his nose. It wasn’t that he was ignoring it, but removing the ground after the commitment.

It wasn’t even a matter of testing patience; he was already certain this was something they both possessed. They both had time on their side. But perhaps, underneath it all, it was to let Acier know he was down to play the long game.

This wasn’t real combat; it was sport, and somehow, that made it all the sweeter. No desperate need to end things fast, and zero desire to rush this feeling out phase. He might’ve even let his sparring partner also know he respected forward pressure, which is exactly why the lead hand dipped a few inches to invite him back in.

Lysander didn’t mind the backfoot; he was ok with making him commit first every time.

Might as well check out if he’s consistent or not.

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Thrantin

Equipment:
Training Gear| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

Ace noticed the slight dip of Lysander's lead hand. The invitation. A more raw version of him would have foamed to accept.

While he didn't think it was bait, he knew it was measured. Calculated. Confident he could take it back easy. He also noticed the step that followed, the way space was given and reclaimed in the same breath. That told him more than the jab ever could.

He stayed planted just inside that offered space, weight settled, stance compact, letting the pressure exist without rushing to resolve it. He didn't chase, but he moved close enough that Lysander had to account for him whether he wanted to or not.

Ace's lead foot edged forward a fraction, not to step into the lane but to narrow it. His shoulder followed, crowding the line without throwing. Aggression without disclosure.

He had watched Lysander step back. So Ace didn't let him reset, a short shuffle kept him in range, enough to say he was still there. His right hand flicked once, not a jab, not a feint, a touch of motion meant to hold attention while his feet did the real work.

His pressure stayed constant. Ace's left remained glued to his cheek, a show of respect in a way. He let the space sit for a beat longer, then took it. He shifted his weight forward just enough to narrow the lane without crossing it. His lead foot edged in, quiet, controlled, and followed with a double jab.

The first wasn't meant to land. It skimmed air, more placement than strike, a line drawn straight down the center to claim attention. The second followed a heartbeat later, heavier, thudding into guard or shoulder, wherever Lysander let it, not to break through, but to pin.

Off the second jab, he let his weight settle and slid into the pocket, shoulders tight, chin tucked. His right hand came around short and compact, a hook to the body, not thrown with heat but with intent, digging into the space beneath Lysander's guard where breath lived.

He didn't follow-up, just reminding Lysander that pressure wasn't theoretical. Ace stayed close enough for it to register, left still welded to his cheek, right retracting clean as his feet stayed planted. He wasn't there to win the exchange, just to start the erosion.

Lysander von Ascania​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Acier Moonbound​

The pressure came quicker this time, space denied before it could fully return. Lysander was still unbothered. It wasn’t reckless pressure. It was someone comfortable lingering where things tightened. He too shared that inclination, just from the other side of the line. Motions were minimal, shoulders loose, stance settled. There was no need to step back yet.

The following jab was a whisper against his senses. Lysander kept his guard in place, not giving in to an immediate response. Chin tucked, weapons ready, he was rooted, allowing the space to unfold as it would. Perhaps, a less seasoned fight would’ve been urged to seize control before its time. He knew better..

Another arrived, heavier, and would be met at an angle rather than distance. He turned through his ribs, lead shoulder rising, letting the fist thud into muscle. Naturally, breath left him on impact, through the nose, but it wasn’t enough to spark his heart rate. Adrenaline wasn’t there to sabotage him; letting it deplete the gas tank was one of those lessons every fighter learned in the beginning. Knees then softened, taking the weight thrown behind it, still refusing to give ground. Twin emeralds never left Acier’s center

Both the hips and steps tended to always speak first. The window was narrow, but it was there. Lysander’s body answered the only way it knew how. An elbow cinched as his core engaged to take the incoming force. A hand crept higher, fingers brushing through blonde hair, ghosting the edge of his vision in case there was a follow up upstairs.

And rather than immediately finding that back foot, his frame stepped in, attempting to smother any follow through. He might’ve been a novice at judging boundaries when it came to women, but in close quarters, he never was. At least, not this early in.

From there, all one could do was own the consequences. That count that his body kept? He trusted that more than any Sith. Just barely long enough for that crowding to fully settle. Then, with a sharp exhale through flared nostrils, a sharp hiss cut through the air. Lysander slid back, with a jab snapping straight on the exit, hand rotating through the motion, the first two knuckles leading. If nothing else, that was a tribute to an old coach's rule, etched deep: no free hits.

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Thrantin

Equipment:
Training Gear| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

Ace felt the body shot land the way it was meant to. Absorbed, not rejected. Lysander didn't give ground, didn't rush a reply either. He expected nothing less based on what he'd learned from the blonde.

Then Golden Boy stepped in, smothering any attempt at a follow-up. Smart. Ace didn't stiffen, he tightened his forearms, kept his chin tucked. He didn't try to muscle through it. For a moment, he prepared to step back and create a little space for himself.

Lysander had the same idea. His exit jab came sharp. Ace managed to roll in the nick of time, just enough to take it off line, the knuckles brushing past his lead hand. He didn't counter, there was no point. Lysander had earned the space he'd created.

But Ace wasn't going to let him keep it. Ace followed on the heels of the retreat, quietly stepping back into range, lead foot reclaiming ground, shoulders squared the right amount.

Ace didn't linger. His lead snapped again, a short jab, sharper this time, enough to draw attention upstairs. Then he changed levels. His weight dipped and the right hand came through in a compact shovel hook to the body, not wide or loaded, just enough torque to make it felt.

The left followed immediately after, a tight hook to the ribs, aimed where breath thinned and posture cracked. It was controlled rather than heavy. The beskar'gam forearm was overkill in a spar, so Ace didn't force it. He let structure do the work instead, driving through position rather than power.

Unless Lysander dictated otherwise, Ace gave himself the rule to only attack the body with his left. He was sure Fatine or Naniti wouldn't be too happy if he'd damaged the assets.

Ace stepped off on the exit, just a half turn of the hips, resetting his base before anything could come back at him. Guard stayed high. His eyes never left Lysander.

It wasn't aggression for its own sake. It was to let Golden Boy know that he was raising the tempo now, and he was done feeling him out.

Lysander von Ascania​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Acier Moonbound​

Knuckles skimmed across the former Jedi’s guard instead of settling where they were meant to land, while watching the roll that was as precise as a symphony. Experienced eyes read the next step before the hand even came, gracefully parrying the jab with a flick of his wrist. Perhaps, a reflection of one that’d also trained with both wraps and gloves many times, for the forearm turned as well. It became clear that Thrantin, unlike Desevro, demanded more from its fighters. Increased gravity and altitude added a small layer of challenge, requiring more effort and a little more oxygen from the lungs. Nothing to be overconcerned about.. just noted like anything else while continuing the dance.

With the next breath, his head swayed, sliding offline. Much like a calculated machine, his spine remained aligned, scanning what could be a cross from the opposite shoulder. An elbow dropped in attempt to seal the ribs as the next shot came forth, his lat engaging, and oblique tightening as the force rippled through his core, nonetheless. Perhaps textbook in its execution, but of course beskar did not care...just a dead transfer that bit straight through the meat. His brain hadn't been trained to factor that in, so that was a lesson in its own.

His breath caught, diaphragm tightening as the physical shock traveled.. and even a burst escaped through the nose. That same shock would never reach his visage, contained then and there. But his eyes lifted higher now, alight with something else entirely as he dared, for the briefest second, to stop reading and look at Acier. A wisp of a smile curled the corner of his mouth, gone as quick as it appeared. Back on Ukatis, when his understanding of the fire within was young, he learned that nothing truly made one feel more alive than having a foe to fight.

A worthy one at that.

He believed himself to know the game, and Acier's strategy was not without merit. Break the body, kill the head, as some were so fond of saying. A serviceable philosophy, no? In a professional ring, it would even catch him in later rounds. When playing for keeps, his own heart was aligned with a similar truth.

Break their spirit first, and the rest would take care of itself..

There was no offense taken from the body work, nothing emotional, and not even desire for a slugfest. Just a natural need to hit back. A crowd might even consider that ‘boring’, but it was no less deadly for two fighters that were clearly anything but amateur.

A small adjustment of his own was taken, with the lead foot sliding just enough to check the line, toe grazing close to Acier’s own.. to kill a forward step, and avoid a third body shot trap in a row. Punches thrown from a planted position were stripped of their mechanics.

Launching from that position, he posted a jab straight down the same lane, letting it serve more like a Force barrier than an actual strike. The very second that space was seized, he finally fired the cross right down the pipe. The left hand itself had been begging for it since they first began. His hips rotated only enough, never overcommitting. He didn’t wait to see the result. Whatever it found, he was already pivoting off the lead foot before anything could come back. The tempo had increased, naturally; inviting a trade would come soon enough.

It was another test too, wanting to see how Acier would answer. Not whether the former Jedi could take it, but how he acted when his own rhythm was disrupted. Most Sith would disagree, but aggression wasn’t the answer for everything; irritation was also useful. But.. that always came naturally to Lysander, whether in words, because he’d always had the audacity, or in the melee. Some things never changed..

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Thrantin

Equipment:
Training Gear| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

Ace felt the check on his lead foot before he saw it. Toe to toe. Line denied. Clean work. The posted jab met his guard more than his head, but it did its job; froze the lane just long enough for the cross to come through. Ace read it late, not wrong.

The cross landed. Ace felt it across his guard and cheekbone as his shoulder rolled too late to fully bleed it off. The impact snapped his head just a fraction before he settled again, boots biting into the ground to keep his base under him. Thrantin's gravity made sure he felt the weight behind it. There was a dull ring in his skull.

Ace didn't blink, nor did he step back. He didn't chase either. If anything, he exhaled slower, letting the moment sit, letting Lysander complete the pivot and reclaim his space. Taking the shot wasn't a failure, it was a reminder he was facing an equal. And it was information

So that's the timing. That's the line. When he moved again, it was quieter. A short step in, just enough to close the gap Lysander had carved. His lead shoulder nudged forward, not a strike, just pressure reasserting itself. His right hand flicked once to the chest, not to score, but to re-anchor distance.

He stepped back in behind a quick one–two–one, the right jab snapping first, the left cross following straight down the pipe, then the jab again. Not thrown to score, but to collapse space again. It didn't matter what landed. What mattered was that Lysander had to answer it. That was enough.

Ace slipped into the pocket on the tail of it, knees bent, shoulders tight. His right hand rose from close, a short lead uppercut aimed straight through center mass, compact and sudden, meant to lift posture more than punish it.

The left followed immediately, a tight hook, controlled through the beskar forearm, not overpowered - just placed. Enough to make the exchange real.

Then Ace gave ground, but only a little. A half step back. Just enough to rebuild his base without surrendering the lane. His left snapped back to his cheek, elbow tucked, stance compact, eyes steady and level.

Lysander von Ascania​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Acier Moonbound​

The teen's wrist turned as it began to cross and finish its trajectory, shoulder flowing through. Whatever landed would be devoid of emotion. Many were fervent about keeping score, but not Lysander. Fights were always unpredictable, capable of shifting on a whim. That was why, his mind was a dark machine, detached from everything in that moment.

The first jab settled into his lead with loud pop, caught before it could climb, still carrying enough of Thrantin’s bite that may have been slowing compounding, but the true beauty of adrenaline? It masked pain and trauma. At least, temporarily. Then, the wrist turned inward as his shoulder rose, chin disappearing right behind it. The cross came right after and he slipped inside, head moving just enough to take him off the line.. but not far enough to make it vanish entirely. Acier’s knuckles brushed his cheekbone as it passed.. a quick reminder of how tight the lane had become. The second jab followed, sneaking through as the guard shifted, tapping his face and crowding his vision, and snapping his head back. Beads of sweat sprayed off.

But he advanced instead of retreating, shrinking the space between them. His elbows tucked in tightly, forearms pressing firmly, a modest attempt to nullify some of the upward force. It had its downside like anything else, leaving him more exposed up top than he would've liked. More than anyone would've liked, really. The uppercut connected nonetheless against the sternum, which forced air from his lungs in another sharp breath.. enough to remind him that he willingly chose the close quarters.

From there, the elbow dropped, twisting, barely in time as the hook was being delivered, absorbing a good chunk of the blow on muscle, though the beskar still pressed into him like a hammer, knocking a second breath of air through his lungs. Plus, a hiss through his nose. Yeah, that landed with impact. Which was ok. Korriban had already taken everything that could be broken. What remained learned to welcome the fire.

Knees bent, spine aligned.. the answer was coming before he could even acknowledge committing to the decision. A jab shot out quickly with the lead hand. His weight shifted firmly onto the front foot as the cross came next, hips rotating powerfully to send it straight back down the pipe, shoulder lifting to shield his chin, off any silver platter for the former Jedi.

The leader uppercut came next, ascending off the bend in his knees, as though one were sitting in a chair and exploded upward. Raw power delivered through the kinetic chain.

His rear foot bit into the ground again and the second cross came behind it, shorter than the first, thrown more with rotation than reach. One-two-five-two. A combination that lived in Lysander for years, whether with wrapped hands, gloves, pads, bags, or shadow boxing. Thousands of repetitions until it just became something he was.

A favorite, maybe.

One thing was clear.. landed or not, a war was brewing in the pocket now.

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Thrantin

Equipment:
Training Gear| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

Ace barely bled the first jab. It was fast, faster than he'd expected, and he felt the air snap where his head had been a fraction earlier. His slip was shallow, almost lazy, but just enough. Too close for comfort.

Then the left came. Straight. Clean. Down the lane he hadn't fully closed yet. Ace felt it catch him across the guard and cheek, a glancing impact that still snapped his focus sharp. Southpaw timing. Different rhythm. Something he still needed to adapt to. He hadn't fought another lefty before, and the realization settled fast: that hand was going to be a problem if he didn't adjust.

The uppercut followed, but Ace read it in time. He didn't try to disappear from it. He brought his forearms together instead, elbows tight, bracing as the shot rose into his guard. The impact thudded through bone and plating, contained there. He let it hit structure, not flesh.

Through the contact, he saw the tell. Lysander's rear foot bit hard into the ground. Ace didn't stay for what was coming. For the first time in the exchange, he gave ground - a short pull straight back, just enough. The second cross cut through the space he'd vacated, grazing the bridge of his nose as it passed. Close enough to feel the heat of it.

Ace answered immediately. As the punch sailed through, he pivoted off his lead foot and fired a check right hook, snapping it across as he stepped out to his own right, off-angle now, outside Lysander's line. Thrown to change the geometry.

From there, he stepped in again, but from the new lane. A jab shot out first, sharp and direct, stepping toward Lysander's left side as he claimed the angle. Then the rear hand came up behind it, a left uppercut, compact and rising, aimed straight for the face.

Ace reset just enough afterward to stay safe, guard already back where it belonged. He didn't rush the moment.

But now he'd learned something important. And the next adjustment wouldn't be late.

Lysander von Ascania​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Acier Moonbound​

A whistle rang through the air as his cross finished and passed where Acier's head had just been. The sound registered as a little sharper than the contact had been moments earlier. The summit was quiet. That rear foot bit too hard, weight still committed to a lane that no longer existed. A fraction of a second was all it took to register. Lysander's vision was wide, peripheral awareness doing its thing.

Now, it was time to adjust. Shoulders rolled once. Heat was blossoming through his sternum and radiating from the ribs, echoing from the earlier body work. Such warmth rarely emerged this quickly. Thrantin was just different. Like anything else, pain was more input you simply embraced.

When Acier's shift came, muscle memory hit. His left arm rose automatically, forearm rotating, elbow tucked neatly into the ribs that were raw. The impact landed squarely on bone, thudding into the plane of his ulna. Almost like a battering ram meeting a shield, at least for one born on Ukatis. A better target than the jaw, though, not that he would shy away from testing it if truly necessary. Shock rippled through the limb. This was simply what his body was programmed to do. Gloves or hands, something had to bear the brunt..

Lysander’s head slipped.. lazily, as the jab was launched from a new lane. His neck was relaxed just enough, so the skull drifted off center. But it wasn’t a full evasion. The strike skimmed across his brow, gazing at the ridge of that delicate orbital bone with a scrape. It cut the skin nonetheless, heightening his awareness. Sweat slicked from the contact, like lubricant, causing it to slide and not bite as deep.

The teen's vision narrowed, a creeping haze at the corners. The muscle around his eye wanted to clamp shut. No way Lysander was surrendering that. Lids just blinked once, chin still hidden. Breathing was smooth, in the nose, then out slowly. This was a discipline ingrained long before a lightsaber graced his hands. He imagined the same could be said for Acier..

Had his body not been trained to take that backfoot, perhaps he would've stepped into it fully, to smother it. Suffocate it entirely. Something deeper urged his body to slip again. A risky move.. stupid even, depending on who was coaching you. Lysander's head drifted just a few inches as the uppercut ascended.

Yet.. it still connected, knuckles of beskar cutting that tender area of his jaw. Skin split, and thank Bogan not too much bone was purchased. Still, the impact sent a spark through his teeth, even more so without a mouthguard, and delivering a shudder into his chest. A sharp sensation rippled through his skull, another sharp hiss released. Sweat slipped free once again.

But.. there was something useful out of it. Maybe even an advantage. Lysander's knees were bent from the slip, drawing him lower. Absorbing some of that force funneled his hips, glutes, thighs, coiled like springs.

Everything was already in place. From that position.. there was one simple answer. A single cross fired out, driven up through his lower body in a short line, wanting to spear straight through Acier’s sternum. There was no glory in it, but he would chance stealing a breath from his opponent too. Of course, he wanted to throw more, the rhythm begged for it. But a combination would’ve kept him in that pocket too long. One punch would have to do.. less commitment, and easier to snap back into guard. The war in the pocket was inevitable, of course, but this exchange was about trying to make the next happen on his terms.

Retreating was out of the equation. Playing the same game, it would just be a half step off the lane.

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Thrantin

Equipment:
Training Gear| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

Ace felt the cross before he fully saw it. It drove into his chest with a compact thud, stealing a fraction of breath and forcing his ribs to tighten on reflex.

He was going to feel that tomorrow for sure. But he absorbed it without breaking posture. Chin tucked. Core locked. He let the impact travel into his frame instead of bouncing off it, boots grinding into Thrantin's stone as gravity did its part. The beskar forearm rose instinctively, not to block what had already landed, but to close the door on anything greedy that might follow.

He didn't step back. Instead, he slid a half step off the lane, shoulders turning just enough to dull the line, eyes never leaving Lysander's center. The movement was subtle, more of a reposition than retreat. Still changed the geometry all the same.

Ace exhaled through his nose, resetting his breath fast. The exchange had sharpened something in him. The left cross wasn't just a threat now, it was a pattern forming. A problem to be solved.

His lead shoulder dipped first, subtle, almost casual. Then the right hook came around tight to the body with a compact turn of the hips, knuckles digging into the pocket beneath Lysander's guard where ribs were already warm.

Before the weight could fully unwind, the left followed. Shorter. Meaner in intention, restrained in delivery. The beskar forearm kept it honest, still no full torque, but the placement was precise, thudding into the opposite side to force the lungs to work unevenly. Structure over violence. Pressure over power.

Ace didn't admire it. He let the motion carry through instead, shoulders rolling as the right came back upstairs, snapping into a hook toward Lysander's head. Not thrown to decapitate, but tight enough to punish anyone thinking the body work meant safety up top.

Then he reset with a half step out. Still in range. Still asking the same question, over and over:

How long can you live here with me?

Ace didn't rush the answer. He just kept applying it. One thing was certain, his respect for Lysander was growing.

Lysander von Ascania​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Acier Moonbound​

There was no flinch in him, and he didn't pull back. Lysander's elbow snapped down instinctively, and a web of muscle flared wide, the lats, and obliques bracing as well to help absorb the impact. The hook struck with a thud; fortunately, that one barely bypassed the ribs, given he rotated just enough to meet the strike. Another hiss through the nose. A small step forward with the lead foot would accompany it, an honest attempt to dull any follow through.. if Acier had planned one. Calculated for sure, but confidence was present.

If the former Jedi wanted to breach that pocket, so be it.

He welcomed the challenge now

Another was already coming, riding for that space before the guard could seal. His other elbow dropped a split second too late, which allowed the strike to split its claim. That one caught bone and flesh, the beskar just as unforgiving as it was the last time. The vibration carried farther than pain, and the blonde’s breath hitched. Another hot echo under the ribs.. but he remained planted.

He wasn’t blind to the investment in body work.

Peripheral vision registered movement, something coming upstairs, except, his body answered it wrong. Muscle memory twitched on an old familiar assumption.. a ghost of orthodox timing bleeding through. Shoulders rolled thinking the threat was coming from the other side. Southpaw versus southpaw made their lane tighter. Sure, a correction arrived in inches, but it was too late. The lead shoulder rose, but not enough to make that hook vanish. The fist skimmed across his cheek and brow again instead of the forearm shielding it away. Lysander’s head snapped, a searing line of awareness across his youthful countenance.

When he blinked next, he felt warmth trickling down from the brow. That cut was noted and dismissed in the same breath. Blood was fine; it wasn't enough to affect his vision. A scar along his cheekbone, another riding one brow.. none of it didn’t really matter. Lysander was the type to pull stray either way after war, with both eyes swollen shut, if he felt like it. Well.. at least before Naniti entered his life.

The lead foot answered with a slide no bigger than a shoe’s length, heel barely kissing the ground, hips under him. Rather than the outside of the center line, he emerged straight into it.

This time, there was no announcement with the jab. The real Sith side of him might've even considered that a little courtesy. The shared pocket tightened. His rear shoulder pumped once, nothing thrown, syncing with a hip swivel.. a phantom motion, bait to lure a reaction. Then, with a sharp dig of his back foot into the canvas, he unleashed the real cross, snapping like a cannon blast. There was no time to wait for the result. After, the lead hand surged upward in a short and tight hook, elbow bent, looking to catch whatever it could. Temple, jaw, guard.. it didn't matter, just something to keep those hands busy. That same hook then swung down, knuckles equally hungry for ribs.

And this time, he held his stance and didn't move out, daring any counterstrike.

There was an answer for whatever was being asked.

Nobody was safe now.

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Thrantin

Equipment:
Training Gear| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

Ace registered the cut the moment it happened. Not the pain, just the warmth, the thin line opened across Lysander's brow. He clocked it, filed it away… and just as quickly noted what didn't change.

There was no break in posture. No hitch in breath. No flicker in the eyes. Lysander stayed right there, focused, present, working. Ace respected that. Anyone could bleed, not everyone could ignore it.

The jab came again. Fast. Too fast to treat casually. Ace brought his right left up late, barely catching it on the outside of his guard as it snapped against him anyway. He felt the impact travel through his metallic knuckles and wrist.

Lysander had fast hands and a real jab. Ace was already aware, he'd barely managed to deal with most of them so far. That awareness sharpened as the rhythm continued.

Then the shoulder twitched. Rear shoulder. Hip swivel. Nothing thrown. Ace reacted a fraction too early anyway. The cross detonated down the lane like it had been waiting for him to make that mistake. It caught him clean enough, cheek, guard, orbital, hard to tell exactly where in the blur of it. What he did know was the sting blooming behind his right eye, sharp and immediate, pressure swelling fast beneath the skin.

The follow up hook came fast, but Ace read that one. He dipped and rolled under it, shoulders folding tight, head slipping beneath the arc... and paid for it anyway. The same hook came down into his body, thudding into ribs that were still resetting. Air left him in a short, involuntary burst. Not enough to stop him, but enough to register.

Ace answered immediately. He stayed low and ripped a short hook into Lysander's body, then another from the opposite side, digging where breath lived and rhythm faltered. No wind up. No flourish. Just pressure returned in kind.

Then he disengaged. Just enough room to see again. Ace snapped a jab. Short. Tapping. Another followed, then a third, not thrown to land clean but to touch, to occupy, to reassert presence and reset the cadence on his terms. And off that last tap...

He stepped in and fired the rear uppercut. A reminder that every exchange cut both ways.

Lysander von Ascania​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Acier Moonbound​

The blow landed with a harsh note, a thud, radiating pain through his knuckles and crawling down his forearm. It was impossible to tell whether the strike hit cheek, bone.. or a messy mix of both. From experience, precision could be irrelevant in moments like this. Instincts took over; the body just felt what the brain hadn't registered.

A burning pulse traced Lysander’s sternum next, ribs echoing from earlier investments. That pain no longer asked why.. it just arrived, waiting to be faced. In this space, truth cut through the noise. Lies had no place here..

Honesty was the only currency.

The rest of the combination followed. Lysander’s expression was unchanged through it all. Nothing to admire there. His mouth was closed, jaw relaxed. Only his eyes sharpened.

Lysander knew the answer was coming. It came fast too.

The hook found him, buried right under the guard. It was always his air being disrupted that was the true cost. The jabs came, brushing his guard first, cheek second. The third was slipped. A mix of neuro memory and lucky. He'd take it. They were more rhythm than violence; though, in truth, enough taps could make anyone bleed.

The uppercut rose again. Familiar enough to be seen without surprise, not that it made them an easier to evade. This time, it landed through his structure instead of face, but rattled him nonetheless. His head snapped just enough to smear the world of Thrantin. Teeth clicked together, another hiss escaping the nose.. sharper now.

When his vision cleared, Lysander was still there. Always there. He wasn’t going down that easily. The blood was there too, creeping closer to his eye, almost irritating, but not enough to blur the sight..

Their shared pocket hadn't loosened; if anything, the pressure was felt all within that space. The blonde inhaled with the nose, looking at the man's center, rather than his head. Center's didn't lie. That was why when he moved next, it wasn't upward. Weight sank onto Lysander's lead leg, loading the hip. There was no feint this time. As his torso rotated, knuckles began turning over, looking to disappear into that soft pocket under the ribs. From there, he didn't move forward. The rear foot was alive, and the rear hook came up fast and short. Whatever was to come next, he would be prepared to meet it.

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Thrantin

Equipment:
Training Gear| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

Ace felt the swelling before it fully registered as a problem. The right side of his vision was starting to blur at the edges, the world smearing just enough that depth felt… off. Unreliable.

He clocked Lysander through the haze anyway. The blood. The tightness in the ribs. The way the blonde still hadn't given an inch. Plenty of fighters slowed when the cost showed up. Lysander didn't. He stayed right there, breathing steady, eyes sharp, like pain was just another variable he'd already accounted for.

Ace was adjusting. The weight shift came before the punch. He saw it in the hips, in the way Lysander sank into the lead leg. No feint this time. Honest intent. The body shot was coming.

Ace dropped his elbow and turned his torso into it, forearms compressing tight as the knuckles dug into the pocket under his ribs anyway. The impact still got through, there was no pretending otherwise. A dull shock rippled across his side, pulling a grunt out of him despite himself.

But he was already answering. He stayed planted and ripped a short hook back into Lysander's body, then another, tighter this time. Shifting stance, he crowded the space immediately after, shoulder brushing chest, making every breath Lysander took work harder than it needed to.

Then he went upstairs. An overhand right toward the head, specifically to where Lysander's cut was. It wasn't honorable, but it was leverage. He eased back half a step after, still close, still dangerous. Guard tight. His right eye stung and his vision narrowed, but his focus sharpened around it instead of fading.

Lysander von Ascania​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Acier Moonbound​

Again, the dull pressure unfurled from the point where it pressed, pushing across his sternum and sinking into the muscles of his back. But he never flinched. His knees sank lower, dropping his center, spine stacked in alignment, chin hooked behind the lead shoulder. Shoulders rolled inward, forearms pressing to fence the vulnerable spacing around his ribs. Standing firm was still a conscious choice. Sure, stepping back would have been kinder to his lungs, gentler on his ribs. But comfort had no value here.

And nowhere else in the galaxy, either.

The second was partially caught on the drop of an elbow, somewhere for it to die, but it drove forth anyhow, and into the pocket.

Though he never saw himself as a low IQ fighter, each passing second was chipping away at a well built tactical mindset. The erosion of all logic.

Lysander understood the intent as the space between them collapsed. His forearm turned inward to meet what he could as the overhand made itself known. At first it clipped through the edge of the shield. Then knuckles scraped across the top of his guard, glancing into the brow and cheekbone beneath. The teen’s head snapped just enough to light the nerves, and pressure flared behind his eye.

Vision pinched for a split second.

He wasn't keen on letting Acier gain much with that half step. His lead hand instantly snapped forward in an attempt to intercept. He didn't care if it was meaningful.. it just needed to be strategic, to block space, to prevent a potential escape route, even though he doubted that was what the former Jedi had in mind. And just as the jab left, blood finally ran into his eye, blurring the world of Thrantin’. No medic in sight, no stim, no remedy, and none of it mattered. Because now he was smiling, the same kid who once tried to fight an entire enclave as a Padawan back on Naboo. The same kid that stabbed their battlemaster and realizing the Light was weak..

Some things never fething changed.

The weight dropped steady as a cross threaded the narrow window next. Rather than extending fully, he pivoted his hips at the strike's apex, curling the lead hook back toward the center.. compact and mean. Both balanced and exposed, the message was very clear: he’d keep pressing.

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Thrantin

Equipment:
Training Gear| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

Ace saw his smile through the blur. Not the expression itself, his right eye wasn't cooperating anymore, but the posture behind it. The way Lysander stayed planted. Knees bent. Center low. Still choosing to stand in the fire even with blood cutting his vision.

The jab came fast, more barrier than strike. Ace brought his guard up just in time, barely smothering it on the outside of his forearm as it scraped through space meant for his head. Lysander's hand speed was still a problem. And the intent behind it, made the blonde all the more dangerous. Every jab was doing work even when it didn't land.

Then the cross threaded in behind it. Ace didn't fully evade this one. He couldn't. The punch caught him high on the guard and cheek, glancing but sharp enough to send another hot flare behind his swollen eye. His vision pinched tighter for a moment, pressure blooming under the lid. He tasted copper and grit and forced it down with a breath.

The hook followed. Ace rolled under the first arc on instinct, shoulders folding tight, spine coiling, but the second half of it still found him. Knuckles drove into his side as he came up, his ribs flared and a short burst of air tore from his lungs.

Ace stayed low, resetting his stance back to his natural one, and answered immediately. A compact lead uppercut ripped into where Lysander's chin should be, followed by a short left hook to his jaw. There was no wind-up, it was a quick combination punch designed to have one or both punish him.

Then he disengaged. A half step back before snapping a jab quick, then bending his knees and stepping in again. With it, came a cross, heading straight for Golden Boy's sternum.

Ace's eye throbbed. Lysander was bleeding. Neither of them looked interested in slowing down. Good.

Lysander von Ascania​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Acier Moonbound​

One moment his focus was crystal clear; the next, a sharp force launched his chin upward. A hollow click echoed inside his head like a bell. He wasn’t knocked out; no, it was something stranger. His mind went blank.. like a signal on the Holonet dropping and reconnecting. Sound spilled back in. Awareness became electric. Just as thought returned, a hook caught him.

Somewhere beyond thought, he had sensed it approaching. Follow up strikes were unavoidable. But.. knowing and stopping were different things. A shoulder rolled late, and a first cracked across cheek and brow. Sweat and blood tore free in a violent breath as his head snapped violently. Neck muscles flared, strong enough to reduce acceleration and provide stability; luckily, it wasn’t an area he neglected in training.

His right eye was sharp, the left flooded immediately with warmth streaking down. The lid stuck together, staying closed. The jab barely missed him. He wouldn’t pretend that was skill alone. A touch of instinct and luck carrying the rest. The kind that was earned. Beskar met bone and the impact hollowed him out. Breath shut off like a switch flipped.

Lysander stood his ground, unexpected angles from the southpaw catching him off guard time and again. This was accepted without protest. All he could do was continue firing back in rhythm and keep pressing. But, it wasn’t about winning or losing. Beneath the pain and noise, there was just another lesson.. and somehow, they always arrived on time.

Thrantin gave him exactly what he came for.

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Thrantin

Equipment:
Training Gear| Lightsaber | Cybernetic Arm

The blur in his right eye pulsed, swelling pressing in, but he let it be. Pain only demanded attention if you fed it. He didn't. His breathing steadied on its own, body finding that familiar equilibrium that only came after things got real. After the noise stripped away.

He watched Lysander reset through the haze. Still upright, still present. Good. Not because Ace wanted to hurt him, but because anything less would've meant this was a waste of time.

There was no triumph in it, nor ego. Just recognition. Lysander wasn't reckless. He wasn't fragile. He was learning in real time, the same way Ace always had... by standing in the fire long enough to understand it. Ace respected that more than words ever could.

The spar had taken something out of him. But it had given something back too. Clarity. Focus. He rolled his shoulder once, letting the tension bleed out. Fighting did that for him, stripped things down, made the galaxy simple. No past. Just timing, pressure, and truth.

And in those moments? When the noise fell away and all that mattered was staying upright, Ace felt something close to alive.

-END-​

Lysander von Ascania​