asconian's blog

Months had passed since the storm that forged an unlikely respect between the pirate captain and the Spanish nobleman. The Crimson Wind had vanished into distant horizons, and Felipe de la Vega had returned to his life of courtly obligations within the grand Palacio de la Vega, a sprawling estate on the outskirts of Madrid.

One crisp autumn afternoon, a discreet messenger disguised as a common sailor delivered a sealed note to Felipe’s private study. Felipe broke it open and read the bold, flowing script:

“De la Vega,

The sea has kept its secrets long enough. Your palace, the grand salon with the marble floors and the view of the gardens. Midnight, two weeks from today. Come alone, as I shall. No weapons. No servants.

Should you decline, I will understand—a noble’s courage may not extend to his own marble halls.

Cortázar”

Felipe’s lips curved into a faint, determined smile.

Two weeks later, Felipe awaited him in the chosen living room, the largest and most elegant salon on the ground floor. The nobleman had dismissed his servants for the night and ensured the corridors remained empty.

“You received my note,” Cortázar said, his voice low and resonant, carrying the faint lilt of the Caribbean seas. He closed the heavy oak door behind him with a decisive click.

“I did,” Felipe replied evenly, his posture straight and composed. “And I accept. Though I must say, Captain, infiltrating a noble’s palace shows either great audacity or great foolishness.”

Cortázar’s eyes gleamed with amusement and challenge. “Audacity has served me well. As has underestimating you once before. Not again.”

Felipe crossed the room and turned the ornate key in the lock, the metallic sound echoing softly in the spacious chamber. “Then no interruptions. No crew. No storm to blame. Just us.”

The two men faced each other in the center of the room.

Without further words, they engaged.

Cortázar struck first, a swift jab aimed at Felipe’s midsection. The nobleman parried and countered with a sharp hook toward the pirate’s jaw. They circled on the smooth marble, feet sliding slightly, testing range and footing far different from the heaving deck of the Crimson Wind.

The fight intensified. Punches landed with dull thuds against flesh. Felipe drove a knee toward Cortázar’s thigh, forcing the pirate to pivot and respond with a powerful shove that sent Felipe staggering into a velvet-upholstered chaise. The noble recovered instantly, launching forward with a series of rapid strikes that connected against Cortázar’s ribs and shoulder.

Sweat soon glistened on their skin under the warm light of the sconces. Breaths grew heavier, mingling with the occasional grunt of effort or impact. Cortázar grabbed Felipe by the arm, attempting to twist him into a hold, but the nobleman slipped free and delivered a solid elbow to the pirate’s side. They grappled near the center of the room, muscles straining, feet scuffing the polished floor.

The contest wore on, long and grueling. They slipped on patches of their own sweat, crashed against furniture that shifted with protesting creaks, and rose again without pause. Felipe’s calculated technique, refined in secret port fights, met Cortázar’s raw, sea-hardened power and relentless aggression. A brutal exchange left both men bloodied: a split lip for Felipe, a darkening bruise along Cortázar’s cheekbone.

In the final, exhausting minutes, Cortázar seized the advantage. He feinted left, then drove forward with explosive force, tackling Felipe to the marble floor. They rolled, trading ground until the pirate pinned him with superior leverage, pressing a forearm across Felipe’s chest while trapping one arm. Despite Felipe’s fierce resistance and a final, desperate attempt to reverse the position, Cortázar held firm.

“Yield,” Cortázar growled, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow onto the nobleman below.

Felipe struggled a moment longer, then relaxed, acknowledging defeat with a nod. “I yield… this time.”

“We require a third bout. Neutral territory, perhaps. Or wherever fate—or I—chooses next. A man does not leave such a rivalry unfinished.”

“Agreed,” Felipe replied, clasping the pirate’s forearm in the same warrior’s grip they had shared before. “Whenever and wherever you dare, Cortázar. I will be ready.”