Midnight. The New Palace was asleep. The noble rooms, the long corridors, the carpeted staircases… everything was immersed in a solemn calm. Only one place still seemed to breathe with life: the basement kitchens. Two young alfas were into colision course.

There, beneath the flickering light of a hanging lamp, Frank turned on the tap. He splashed water over his face. It had been a long day. He had arrived that very morning, introduced as the new teacher hired by the duke to educate his children and improve the staff’s cultural education. A simple guy, with a steady gaze, broad shoulders, muscular arms. He had grown up in the neighborhood, on basketball courts and in the streets. And no matter that he now wore a shirt and spoke properly, the streets had never really left his body. 

Travis, who had spent years in that house as the butler’s son and self-proclaimed leader among the staff, watched him from the shadows, leaning against one of the columns leading toward the pantry. He had been watching him all day. Fran walked with confidence, spoke clearly, never lowered his head. And Travis couldn’t stand it. 

“You’re the new guy?” he said, stepping out of the shadows.

Frank didn’t even flinch. He turned off the tap and dried his face with his shirt. Then he turned around.

“And you’re the house thug?”

Travis forced a laugh. He took a step forward.

“I’m Travis. I’m in charge here. Everyone who works in this palace knows how things work. You don’t yet. So listen carefully, Spaniard. From now on, if you want to get along with everyone, you obey me.”

Frank stared at him without blinking. He slowly moved closer, his body relaxed but his eyes sharp.

“Like hell.”

Travis stood directly in front of him, chest out.

“Then, my friend, you’ve got a problem.”

Frank didn’t back down.

“Look, I didn’t come here to make friends or score points with the duke’s servants. If you want respect, earn it. If you’re looking for a fight, you’re going to get one.”

“Yeah?” Travis smiled, and without another word, he threw a punch.

Frank dodged it on instinct. The fist grazed his cheek. He answered with a sharp hook to the stomach. Travis grunted and staggered backward. What followed wasn’t a fight. It was a war. Two furious young dogs. 

Punch after punch, knee after knee. They rolled across the stone floor, slammed each other against the central island, bit each other, grabbed at each other’s clothes. The sound of plates crashing, a pot rolling across the floor, a metal spoon flying through the air. A pause, deep breaths. Shirts off. 

Travis managed to slam Frank against the table, but Fran took him down with a kick to the leg. They got up at the same time, gasping for breath, and hurled themselves at each other again like wild dogs. Travis grabbed a ladle and used it as a weapon, striking Frank on the shoulder. Fran answered with a salt shaker that smashed against Travis’s temple, making him stagger.

The kitchen was chaos: flour hanging in the air, blood on the floor, butter knives scattered everywhere, a frying pan flying through the air and crashing into the sink.

Frank wiped his mouth, where blood was beginning to mix with sweat.

“Is that all you’ve got, punk?”

Travis didn’t answer. He charged again, and both of them crashed into the cupboard, knocking over a tower of plates. They rolled across the floor, throwing elbows and grabbing each other by the hair.

At one point, they both lay flat on their backs, breathing as though their lungs had been emptied. A short, agonizing silence. Only the hum of the refrigerator interrupted their panting.

Travis spat on the floor. He got up first.

“You haven’t won anything yet.”

“I don’t need to. You’re already broken,” Frank said, getting to his feet as well, his eye bruised and his lip split.

And then, without another word, they charged at each other one last time.

This time it was brutal. There was no technique, only fury. Frank grabbed Travis around the waist and slammed him against the table. They climbed onto it, fighting like animals: blows, swipes, improvised holds. One slipped, the other pounced on him. They both crashed backward onto the floor, leaving the table wobbling, on the verge of collapsing.

With one final reserve of energy, Frank managed to get on top of Travis and delivered three hard blows to his face, one after another. Not with rage, but with the coldness of someone determined to end the fight.

Travis no longer moved. He was conscious, but he didn’t even have the strength to insult him. Blood ran from his nose, one eye was swollen shut, and his chest heaved.

Frank remained kneeling beside him, drenched in sweat, panting like a bull after a bullfight. He wiped the blood from his mouth, spat to one side, and looked down at him.

“Don’t touch me again, Travis.”

Travis could barely nod.

Frank got to his feet, his whole body aching, and walked away through the remains of the battlefield. Behind him, only silence remained, along with the smell of sweat and blood, and a defeated man lying on the kitchen floor. Both of them battered and bruised-swallon faces, split lips, blood pouring from their noses, and cuts and scrapes all over. They looked like they´d been through a proper dogfight. Frank was much better. And the kitchen after a "to the death" "one hour long" brutal fight was completely destroyed. 

IT WASN´T OVER

Dawn was settling over the New Palace gardens with a damp chill in the air. The breeze stirred the leaves of the trimmed hedges, and the moon illuminated the stone paths with a pale, cold glow. The silence was absolute. Except for two figures.

Frank walked slowly among the manicured bushes, a thin jacket draped over his shoulders. He didn’t like the gardens, but he needed some air. His body still ached from the fight in the kitchen. He was having trouble sleeping. The anger he had kept bottled up for years had burst out like a torrent that night. And yet, he felt no relief. Only tension.

Then he heard footsteps behind him.

He turned around. Travis,  a dark look in his eyes, and holding a stick.

“You came armed this time?” Frank asked without changing his stance.

Travis threw the stick to the ground.

“I don’t need it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am. I’m not going to accept losing in the kitchen. That was an ambush. This time… this time we fight like men. No frying pans. Just you and me.” Open space asshole. 

Frank looked at him for a moment. Then he took off his shirt and dropped it onto the stone bench. Travis did the same. Their muscular torsos gleamed.

“Fine. But don’t come crying to me afterward.”

And the fight began.

The punches began to echo through the secluded garden.

Travis moved first, charging low like an animal. Frank met him with a kick to the leg, making him stumble. Travis rolled across the grass, but immediately got back up and threw a punch at Fran’s stomach. This time, it connected.

Fran grunted, but quickly answered with a knee to the chest. The impact was sharp and heavy. Travis staggered backward, but his eyes were blazing.

They charged at each other.

They rolled across the damp grass, throwing bare-fisted punches. Fran had more technique, but Travis had more rage. And this time, he was ready. He bit Fran’s arm, shoved him with his shoulder, knocked him onto his back, and drove an elbow into his collarbone. Fran cried out, shoved him away, staggered back to his feet, and the two stood facing each other, sweaty, their lips split, blood running from their noses.

They panted like beasts.

“Is this what you wanted?” Frank spat. “A second beating?”

“This isn’t over!” Travis roared, charging again.

The struggle became even more savage. They crawled across the grass, throwing wild punches without precision, choking on wet earth and broken leaves. Frank hurled him against a tree trunk. Travis dragged him down with him, and they both crashed back onto the ground.

One on top of the other, then the positions reversed. Blows to the back, the ribs, the jaw.

Frank began to dominate.

With a quick hold, he threw him back to the ground and climbed on top of him. He unleashed a burst of three punches to his face. Travis struggled, but he no longer had the strength. Frank grabbed him lifted him slightly off the ground, and delivered one final punch, right between the eyebrows.

Travis lay there, breathing unevenly, his eyes lost among the stars in the sky.

Frank stepped away, trembling.

“There’s no rematch, Travis. There never was. Because you’re not fighting me. You’re fighting the fact that I don’t bow down.”

Silence returned.

Frank crouched down, spat blood, and took a deep breath. Travis was still there, lying on the ground, his chest slowly rising and falling. The moon shone over the battlefield. And just as before, Frank was the one who walked away standing.

A few days passed. The atmosphere in the palace was tense. Travis, his face still marked, moved awkwardly with barely contained rage. But looked down everytime Frank passed by. Frank, on the other hand, maintained the same composure as always, although his knuckles were still swollen and his expression had grown more serious.

A new dog was the dominant at the palace.