Ben moved first, sending one, two, three light jabs to measure range.
They snapped like wet twigs, hurtling through the air with speed.
Damien didn't even bother to parry them. He simply tilted his head, letting the first glance his cheek, rotated his shoulder to let the second slide off his guard, and ate the third on his forearm as he stepped inside Ben's reach.
Ben slid back on rails of good footwork, resetting the angle, and fired a cross hook combination into the opening he thought he saw.
Damien's elbow came up to take the cross. His head slipped off line just enough to let the hook whistle past hair.
In the same motion he stamped forward, heel driving a wedge of sand, and hammered a short, ugly punch into Ben's ribs.
No flourish, just bone to bone.
The air went out of Ben in a thin hiss.
