Across from me, Hamlet was a featureless monster clad in white. Sweat streamed down my back under the suit and slicked my gloved hand. A mask hid my face as well. I adjusted my grip on the foil. The room smelled of sour dust, the clatter and squeak of boots over smooth floor the only sound.
Hamlet lunged, a touch of aggression this time. I’d won twice before now, he the time before, and so on. We would not stop until he won again.
I licked salt from my lips and retreated, adjusting my path along the piste to throw him off balance. He might be the prince, but this was the only activity at which I exceled. If he wanted to create a rift between us, canceling twenty years of camaraderie, I could at least respond in kind. Perhaps I could make him follow and either get him out of bounds or ma
