asconian's blog

Chapter 1: 

A Petulant Count Learns Humility

London, 19th century. The Palace of the Count of Hereford. The night was cold and damp when the count crossed the threshold of his home, his face still flushed with triumph. He had just defeated the Baron of Derby in a boxing match at the exclusive White’s Club —the sanctuary of London’s aristocracy, where gentlemen played cards, gambled fortunes, drank without restraint, and indulged in forbidden pleasures among shadows and whispers. But the most primitive entertainment, reserved only for the bravest, was fighting. In a secluded hall, nobles would shed their titles and become cocksure brawlers for a few minutes.

The Earl of Hereford felt invincible—intoxicated not only by victory, but by power itself. He took off his jacket with an arrogant gesture and smiled to himself. Being an aristocrat was fun, but perhaps… too easy. At White’s, the blows were softened by gentlemanly courtesy, by the absurd politeness of the nobility. Even the toughest held back, as if still afraid to stain their names with something as vulgar as real violence. What would happen, he wondered, if his opponent had nothing to lose?

That thought thrilled him. He needed something more.

And he already knew whom to seek.

The palace basement was almost deserted. Only a faint light glowed from the laundry room, where Edgar, his valet, was working as he did every night. Strong, silent, resigned to his place in the world. How many times had the count struck him without getting a response? How many times had he seen in his eyes that flicker of restrained anger?

The count stopped at the door. Edgar was bent over the washing table, his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms as solid as those of any street fighter. Damn, the man was strong.

That excited him even more.

He stepped inside, and Edgar sensed his presence immediately. He turned, brow furrowed.

—My lord —he murmured, with forced deference.

The noble tilted his head with a sly smile. He was going to provoke him.

—Do you know what your problem is, Edgar? —he whispered, his voice soft and venomous—. You’ve started to think you can look me in the eye. That you’re my equal.

The young servant lowered his gaze instinctively. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He turned back to his work, knowing it was unwise to defy him.

But the count had not come to let him be.

He placed a hand on Edgar’s shoulder, gripping hard. The servant froze.

Then, without warning, the noble drove a brutal punch into his mouth. Blood spurted instantly. The servant fell to his knees, head bowed. He touched his split lips, tasting the iron tang of blood.

The count chuckled darkly.

—You’re not even a man with a pair of balls. I hit you and you bow your head. You can’t fight back. I’d bet they beat you to a pulp outside these walls the first chance they get.

Edgar took a deep breath, his hands trembling. He could stay on the ground. He could let things go on as always. But that day something changed. Maybe the bear had been provoked one time too many.

He rose slowly and, for the first time in his life, looked the count straight in the eye.

—My lord… —he murmured, wiping the blood from his lips—. For your own sake, you don’t want to know.

The noble blinked, intrigued.

Was he being threatened?

He smiled, amused. Brave.

—Oh, really? —he whispered, stepping dangerously close—. You want to teach me manners?

Then the count threw another punch.

But this time, Edgar dodged it.

The noble barely had time to react before a hard right connected with his cheek.

The blow made him stagger. A second punch sank into his stomach, and a third sent him sprawling backward.

For an instant, he couldn’t breathe.

What the hell had just happened? This wasn’t White’s Club.

Fury rose in him like fire up his throat. He lunged at Edgar with a roar, tackling him and bringing him down. They rolled across the floor, striking blindly, scratching, biting —like two stray dogs fighting for dominance. Edgar couldn’t take another hit.

The count seized Edgar by the nape and struck him once, twice, three times in the face—but there was no mockery in his eyes now. Only frustration.

Edgar growled, grabbed his wrist, and with a swift move flipped him onto his back.

Before the noble could react, the servant drove his knee into his abdomen.

The count gasped, struggling to draw breath.

But Edgar didn’t move. He held him down firmly, his chest heaving with fury. 

The storm raged outside, shaking the old outbuilding.

Rain hammered the roof. The count tried to rise, but his legs trembled.

Edgar pushed him gently back to the floor.

—It’s over, my lord —he said, his voice calm, without anger.

The noble lay there, panting, his face swollen, his knuckles raw, and humiliation burning in his gut.

Never in his life had he lost.

Never had he felt what it was to be the weaker man.

And he hated it.

But more than anything, he hated himself.

Days passed before he could move normally again —days in which he had to face his reflection and see a man different from the one he believed himself to be.

He had learned something the hard way: outside the ballrooms and noble titles, he was no one.

Edgar was never struck again.

Not because the count didn’t want to. Not because he didn’t crave revenge. But because he understood he had been a despicable son of a bitch all his life.

And maybe, just maybe…

Being a man meant more than throwing punches.

From that day on, the fights at White’s seemed like children’s games. He sought new experiences —places where life was rougher, more real. Where blows truly hurt, and victory was earned with more than a noble name. The cruel underworld of London, with its human beasts. After visiting Whitechapel, the count wept in shame.

Edgar, for his part, never spoke of what had happened. But each time their eyes met, they both knew the truth.

One of them was the real man.

And it hadn’t been the count.

To be continued