Lucien hit the floor hard, a shower of glass and spilled liquor raining down around him. The impact rattled his ribs, each breath a stab of fire that forced him to grit his teeth. Whiskey stung his cuts, searing the open flesh on his arms and neck as it mingled with the copper tang of blood. For a heartbeat, he lay still among the shattered bottles, letting the pain wash through him until it sharpened into clarity.
The heavy thud of boots — no, not boots. Paws. The unmistakable weight of a Wookie bearing down on him in full fury — reverberated through the floor. Karracca was closing fast. The envoy’s guttural roars carried across the club, drowning out the panicked screams of fleeing patrons. Tables overturned, credits scattered, dice cubes rolled underfoot as gamblers shoved past one another to escape. The holographic dancers flickered and vanished mid-routine, their projectors damaged by the chaos.
Lucien pushed himself to one knee, glass crunching beneath him. He tilted his head just enough to catch sight of his opponent through the haze of smoke and flashing crimson lights. The massive shape of Karracca filled his vision, lightsaber blazing, eyes wild with righteous fury.
Perfect. Rage made him predictable.
Lucien’s lip curled into a smirk. He drew his blade to life with a hiss, the violet light cutting through the murk. “You swing like a drunk with a club,” he called out, his aristocratic drawl sharp, mocking. His voice carried across the burning club like a knife through silk. “Tell me, does it sting that your people’s freedom rests on the back of an old, limping brute?”
Karracca’s roar shook the air as if the walls themselves trembled. He hurled himself forward, all brute force and raw emotion, a storm of fur and fury. Lucien let him come. Timing was everything. At the last instant, he slid sideways into the smoke and flashing beams, his cloak whipping in his wake. The Wookie’s paw slammed into splintered wood and glass instead of flesh, the impact shattering what remained of the bar. Bottles cascaded from their shelves in a glittering rain.
The world exploded into fire.
A spark from Lucien’s blade ignited the spilled liquor, and orange flames leapt skyward, consuming shelves and shattered glass in an instant. Heat blasted outward in a wave, singeing the edges of Lucien’s cloak. Shadows writhed across the durasteel supports overhead, broken by pulsing crimson and violet light. The screams of those few patrons still scrambling to escape mingled with the crackle of burning alcohol.
Lucien stepped through the firelight, his eyes narrowed. The flames painted him in shades of infernal violet, every movement deliberate, precise. Where Karracca fought like an avalanche, Lucien moved like a dagger — sharp, sudden, cutting deep.
He struck low, blade hissing through smoke toward the Wookie’s wounded leg. Karracca bellowed and swung low, intercepting the strike with sheer muscle. Sparks screamed into the air as violet clashed against crimson. But his footing faltered on the slick, liquor-soaked floor. Lucien felt the tremor in his opponent’s stance — the momentary imbalance — and pressed the attack.
A feint high, blade sweeping toward the envoy’s throat. Karracca raised his guard instinctively. Too slow. Lucien twisted, driving his saber down into the counter instead. Sparks showered them both as durasteel screamed under the blade’s kiss. With the distraction in place, Lucien snapped his heel into the gash in the Wookie’s thigh.
Karracca’s howl tore through the club, shaking bottles from their shelves and rattling the very supports overhead. He staggered, massive frame swaying under the sudden surge of pain.
Lucien stepped back, rolling his shoulders as if the strike had cost him nothing. In truth, every movement lanced his body with fire. His ribs ached from the throw, his muscles burned from exertion, and blood still dripped down his temple where glass had bitten deep. But he would never show weakness. Not to this beast.
He straightened, voice cold, eyes glinting with cruel delight. “Careful, old brute. You’re bleeding strength with every swing. And when the rage burns out, all that will be left of you is a corpse in a gutter.”
Karracca snarled, saliva flashing in the firelight, and charged again. Tables splintered under his advance, booths collapsed, the ground itself seeming to quake. Lucien braced. He couldn’t stop the charge head-on — not with brute force. But he could turn it.
As the Wookie bore down on him, Lucien pivoted and let himself fall into a backward roll. Karracca’s slash missed by a hair’s breadth, carving a glowing scar through the floor where Lucien had stood. Momentum carried the envoy past his mark, just enough for Lucien to rise behind him. With a single fluid motion, Lucien brought his blade down across Karracca’s shoulder.
The strike glanced off fur and armor weave, not deep enough to maim, but enough to leave a smoking gash across the envoy’s back. The Wookie howled again, spinning with frightening speed for his size, massive paw lashing out. Lucien barely raised his blade in time, the impact shuddering down his arm and forcing him back several steps. His grip trembled, but he held firm.
The fire spread wider now, smoke gathering thick near the ceiling. The club was a battlefield of shifting shadows, scarlet beams of light cutting through clouds of smoke, the floor slick with alcohol and blood. Overturned tables smoldered, their metal frames glowing in the heat. The air reeked of scorched fur, burned liquor, and rage.
Lucien’s chest rose and fell, breath ragged, but his smirk never faltered. He circled Karracca, blade low, watching the envoy’s movements with a predator’s patience. Every stagger, every roar, every heavy swing confirmed what Lucien already knew — the Wookie was burning himself out. The wound in his leg slowed him, the gash across his back stiffened his movements, and his fury blinded him to finesse.
Lucien stopped circling, standing tall amid the smoke. His voice carried like steel over the crackle of flames. “Do you feel it yet, Karracca? The weight of time. Every step is slower, every strike weaker. You’re not the Rebel firebrand you once were. You’re just another relic, lashing out at shadows.”
He raised his blade in salute, mocking, aristocratic, violet light glinting in his eyes. “And I am the shadow that will bury you.”
The duel was far from over. But already, Lucien could taste victory in the air, sharp as blood and smoke.
