asconian's blog

The rumors spread through the palace corridors like a silent fever. Some said Travis had slipped. Others claimed thieves had attacked him in the night. But those who knew how to look—and those who listened behind the walls—knew the truth: the young teacher had beaten him. And the duke knew it too. 

The Duke of Hereford was no distant old man. He was young, sharp-eyed, blond-haired, a strange mixture of nobility and contained violence. Only a few years older than Frank, he smiled with a twisted grimace when he heard of the bully’s fall.

 “So you smashed that bastard’s face,” he said one morning, still looking out the study window. “Someone should have done it long ago.” 

The young man said nothing. 

Days later, it happened. Frank was summoned to attend the duke. When he entered, the duke was already standing in the center of the room, shirtless, the door left ajar. Frank swallowed at the sight of him: a formidable, heavily muscled torso.

 “Close it,” the duke ordered without turning. Frank obeyed. When he turned back, the duke was watching him with a different intensity. There was fire in his eyes. 

“I’ve been thinking,” the duke said, removing his signet ring and setting it on the table. I need to know what you’re made of.” 

“Excuse me, sir?” “Fight me. I’m bored.” 

A tense silence. 

“No, sir. I couldn’t. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

The duke smiled mockingly and took a step closer.

 “Hurt me? You think you can hurt me, boy? Or are you afraid your master will beat you?” 

Frank clenched his teeth. 

“It isn’t fear, sir.” “Then what?” “Respect.” “Then leave it at the door. In here it’s just you and me. Two men. There aren’t many years between us.”

The tension became unbearable. They stared at each other like beasts about to collide. At last the younger man stepped forward. 

“As you wish, sir. But don’t come crying afterward. Don’t complain. I’m going to beat you to a pulp.”

 A dangerous look crossed the duke’s face. He called his valet. 

“Harris. Whatever you hear, no one disturbs us.” He locked the door. 

Slowly he pulled off his shirt. Frank, smiling, did the same. From that moment only one of them would walk out. Neither intended to yield. Hell broke loose. Two beasts ready to tear each other apart. The duke lunged with unexpected speed. His servant barely blocked the first blow and was thrown into a wardrobe. Wood groaned. He answered with an elbow aimed at his master’s face; the duke slipped it by millimeters. 

Then came the savage exchange of fists. They crashed onto the royal bed. It creaked and collapsed. The footman seized the duke by the shirt and slammed him into a bookcase. Books and an oil lamp tumbled; the lamp exploded on the floor. The duke drove a knee into his side and knocked the breath from him. 

“You’re strong,” the nobleman growled, blood on his face. “But you’ve met someone stronger. You’re not walking out of here tonight.” 

“Come on then, my lord,” Frank said. “In here we’re just two men. This is going to be the worst night of your life.” 

They fought through the entire room. A chair shattered. They smashed into the desk. The footman landed a hook that split the duke’s eyebrow. The duke bled and kept coming. A straight to the stomach, a right to the chin that rocked the younger man. They fought for more than half an hour. They stood, gasped, and threw themselves at each other again. They fell, rolled locked together like two cobras. 

Technique vanished. Muscle against muscle. They pinned each other in turn, fighting for dominance. On their feet once more, another flurry of punches. The footman dropped to his knees, coughing, trying to rise. The duke did not wait. With sudden brutality he seized him, lifted him, and smashed him against the back of the sofa. The young man staggered. Then came the short, sharp blow to the neck. He collapsed, gasping. The room was wreckage: blood on the floor, broken furniture, the air thick as after a storm. The duke, face bloodied, breathing like a beast, stepped forward and held out his hand. 

“Never underestimate a man who grew up among lions, boy.” Frank looked up with clouded eyes and took it. 

“I didn’t think…” he coughed, “that you were that hard, sir.”

 The duke smiled with split lips. The young man looked beaten—bloodied, coughing, forehead against the floor—while the duke approached, breathing hard, knuckles raw. He offered his hand with a mixture of respect and superiority, like a man granting something from a throne. Then the young man lifted his head. Those were not the eyes of a defeated man. Something fierce, cold, and awake lived in them. In one motion he head-butted the duke, seized the outstretched wrist, and yanked with unexpected force. 

He unbalanced him, pulled him in, and threw him over his shoulder. The nobleman crashed onto the wreckage of the sofa with a dry thud. Before he could recover, the young man was on him. A knee on the chest, forearm across the throat. The duke struggled and could not break free. 

“I told you I didn’t want to hurt you,” the footman whispered, voice hoarse and firm. “You wanted it this way.” 

Blood dripped from the duke’s split eyebrow. He gasped, trapped. It was not over. He threw a punch at the face. Frank dodged on instinct and took the second in the stomach. The air exploded from his lungs. He answered blindly with a low kick that sent the duke stumbling back. They separated for a second, breathing hard. Then they crashed together again. Another explosion of fighting—graceless, formless, brutal and clumsy, two animals that did not know when to stop. 

Fists, elbows, shoulders. They rolled across the floor, smashed a side table, slammed into a bookcase that came down in a roar of splintered wood and falling books. The duke snatched a broken bottle and threw it. The footman covered himself with a cushion. Glass shattered. Fabric tore. The footman used the opening to throw himself on top, gripping the duke’s throat. The nobleman growled, drove a knee into his side, rolled him, and they fell again, sliding through papers, blood, and splinters. Both gasped, sweated, snarled. 

They were not two men fighting. They were past and present at war. Rage. Pride. A chair smashed against the duke’s back. A brutal hook opened the footman’s eyebrow. A pause. A blink. The footman bled from the mouth. The duke trembled, one eye swollen. 

“Want to stop?” the duke spat. “Not until you do, sir.” 

And they continued. They threw themselves onto the royal bed. It could not take the weight and collapsed. The footman locked him in a hold; the duke bit his arm to break free. Blood. Ragged breath. Pain. Every muscle screamed. Neither would yield. Neither could go on. At last both dropped to their knees, facing each other, hands shaking, eyes clouded. Each tried one last blow. It was slow, clumsy, as if they were punching underwater. They collapsed, gasping, one on each side of the room, on the bloodied, warm floor.

 Seconds passed. Minutes. The fire from the fallen lamp still burned in a corner. The duke spoke first, voice hoarse. 

“You damned bastard…” 

The footman let out a weak laugh that turned into a cough. 

“You son of a bitch…” They both laughed. It was a broken, pained laugh, but real—a laugh born of exhaustion and respect earned with fists. The duke rolled onto his side, spat blood, and muttered: 

“I suppose… there is no winner.” 

“There is,” the footman answered, looking at the ceiling. “But not tonight.” 

Silence returned. This time it was comfortable. No orders. No ranks. Only two men, wrecked, breathing hard, and a truth hanging between them.