Light bounces off the polished steel of the rapier, nearly blinding me, before the scrape of steel against steel rattles in my ear.

Shock waves of pain vibrate up my arm. Behind his mask, my opponent’s teeth flash bright white as he senses my discomfort. In a blindingly quick movement, he slashes with his wrist, the movement slamming the flat side of his weapon into my right wrist. A slightly different angle and my hand and my arm would have parted company forever.

As it is, dumb luck and years of training are the only things that keep my fingers closed around the hilt of my weapon.

My opponent doesn’t back down, not even for a split second. He presses his advantage, moving with cat-like grace as his thrusts and parries his weapon, the tip of it dancing closer to my heart. My arm feels heavy, my fingers too stiff to effectively block him. If I don’t do something, and fast, his next thrust will strike its target.

I grit my teeth.

I should retreat, put some distance between my body and his, dance out of the way of his weapon until sensation returns to my arm and I’m able to use it properly, but I don’t.

I can’t.

I’ve never been the kind of guy to back down, not even when it’s in my best interest – and I’m not going to start now.

So, instead of backing up and giving myself some space, I lunge forward, getting right up into my opponent’s face. We’re too close for either of us to use our weapons effectively, which is bad for him, but gives my arm a couple of seconds to recover.

It won’t take long. I’ve always recovered fast.

The sloppy grin fades from my opponent’s face. I practically hear him gritting his teeth as, too late, he attempts to brace for my charge.

I flex my fingers. They still feel clumsy and numb, so using my weapon isn’t a viable option. So, I turn to the next best thing, my body.

I keep pressing forward, invading my opponent's personal space, forcing him to scramble back, and pushing him off balance until…

He loses his footing and crashes to the floor, spittle. Without missing a beat, I flourish my own weapon and press it to the middle of his chest.

Now it's my turn. I can't help the grin stretches across my face.

My vanquished opponent – who also happens to be my cousin and one of my best friends – looks up at me through his fencing mask and rolls his eyes.

I throw him a smirk.

“I guess I win.”

The words still hang in the air when a flurry of activity at the side of the room catches my eye.

“Damn-it, Lucas.” Carlos Mandolay, my fencing coach yells, storming across the room. I can practically see the storm billowing out of his ears as his face turns an unattractive shade of red.

“How many times do we have to go over the rules before you get them through your skull?”

I flip my mask back and hold up a hand, silencing his tirade. “I know, Carlos,” I say, grinning. “I’m undisciplined, hard-headed, and arrogant. And all of the above are making it impossible for you to do your job.”

I know my flippant tone pisses him off even more, but I can’t help myself. When the adrenaline courses through my veins like it’s doing now,

Carlos upper lip curls, exposing his teeth in a grin that would be perfectly at home in the middle of a horror movie. “And yet, nothing ever changes.”

He points at my fallen cousin, who is slowly pushing himself to his feet. “I’ve never seen anything so atrocious and underhanded. I’m embarrassed to be your coach.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” I protest, wiping a bead of sweat from my eyes. “Roderick’s the fool who can’t stay on his feet.”

My words trigger the desired effect. Carlos spins away from me and lights into Roderick.

“You’re just as foolish as he is. When he advanced, why didn’t you retreat? And why the hell didn’t you press your advantage when you had the opportunity instead of playing with him?” Carlos flails his arms, the elaborate gestures driving home his point with a flourish.

Roderick’s lips twitch. Carlos spots the movement and stomps forward until his and Roderick’s faces are just inches apart. Carlos looks more like a sports coach yelling at a referee than an elegant fencing master running one of the best Olympic-level fencing training programs in the world.

“What, exactly, is so funny?” Carlos spits, fury emanating from his body. His arms continue to wave and point.

Now Roderick’s shoulders shake. “It’s hard to take anyone who looks like a drunken swan trying to take flight seriously. Just sayin’.”

If Carlos was mad before, it’s nothing compared to now. His mouth opens and closes several times before he finally manages to force his words out.

“I don’t need to take this kind of bullshit from two cocky, spoiled, royal brats,” he screams, his words bouncing off the training strip. Everyone who had been practicing or running through exercises stops, pretending they aren’t listening. Everyone’s attention is on us.

Then again, that’s hardly unusual…

“There’s not a country in the world that wouldn’t hire me in an instant,” Carlos continues. His wild gaze bounces from Roderick to me and back again. Drops of spittle fly from his mouth, prompting us to step back.

“Countries where I would have youngsters who appreciate me, who listen to me and follow my instructions. Students who don’t just say they want to win Olympic medals, but who are actually willing to put in the work it requires.”

Carlos spins on his heel and storms towards his office. His arms continue to jerk as though he’s conducting an imaginary orchestra and we can hear him sputtering as his protestations die in the distance.

Tim Mandalay, the assistant coach and Carlos’s son, stops in front of us and takes our sabers.

“You know,” he says in his ever soft voice, “one of these days, the pair of you will push too far and he’ll do exactly as he says. Then where will you be?”

“Even if he does quit,” I say as I pull my mask off my head and run a hand through my damp hair to smooth it back into place, “we’ll just find another coach.”

Even as I say the words, a tiny concern bites at the back of my mind. And it’s not just guilt for being such an ass.

If Carlos does quit, finding another coach of his caliber won’t be easy. The whole reason my parents, the King and Queen of Moravia, brought him into the country to coach me and the rest of my fencing team was because he was the best coach in the sport, and I refused to settle for anything less than the best.

All of the other top-rated coaches were working with their own national teams and it would have taken more than just coaxing to convince them to leave and come to Moravia.

Besides, for all that I struggle to resist getting under his skin, the truth is I like Carlos.

And more importantly, the odds of me capturing a gold medal at the upcoming Summer Games - and redeeming myself for the tiny – but fatal - mistake that had ended in my crashing out of the last Olympics with the bronze while Roderick wore the silver and Moravia, which had been the favored fencing team going into the Games, yielded the top spot on the podium to Monaco.

Freaking Monaco!

Even now, the taste on the back of my tongue is bitter. I made a vow to myself back then, and I haven’t forgotten. I refuse to let anything mess up my plans for redeeming myself at the next Olympics.

I’ll win the gold this time, no matter what it takes.

“I’ll apologize. Smooth his feathers.”

I hand Tim my mask and walk towards Carlos’ office. My mind searches for the right combination of words that will prove I’m genuinely sorry for being such a difficult student to teach, which I am-both difficult and genuinely sorry. Sometimes my arrogance gets the best of me. Someday, I’ll curb it, I hope

But I don’t make it two steps before Roderick’s hand clamps onto my shoulder.

“Not so fast.” My cousin says, shaking his head. “You don’t want to walk into Carlos’ office and pull your ‘I’m royalty but have decided to lower myself to acquiescing to your wishes bullshit right now’.”

I glance at Tim.

“Roddie’s right,” Tim agrees.

“Dad’s about as mad as he can get right now and I don’t think there’s anything you can say that will make things better at the moment. You might even push him over the edge and he really will decide to quit. You know, he thinks of you guys practically as family. You shouldn’t push him so hard…”

“You’re right,” I groan.

Roderick crosses his arms and stares at me with dancing eyes. I recognize that look. He’s getting ready to throw down a gauntlet.

“I think it’s time we discussed what the hell just happened.”

“We fenced. I advanced. You fell down like some novice.”

Roderick’s eyes flash at the word novice. It’s a deliberate slight. Roderick and I started fencing at the exact same age and are evenly matched, though I tend to win more matches than he does.

“You tripped me. And now, not only is Carlos pissed at both of us, but I’ve got a bruised ass.” He glances at Tim. “You saw what happened. Back me up.”

Tim holds up his hands, his palms turned towards us. “Hey man, if you think I’m getting involved in this argument, you’re nuts. I know better.”

“I never touched you,” I remind him. “You fell.”

“It’s still your fault.”

This is so typical of Roderick. My cousin is a good guy, but he hates taking the blame for his mistakes. I understand. I’m the same way. You kind of have to be growing up in a family like ours.

Luckily, I don’t make many mistakes. It's usually a non-issue.

Except for one time. At the Olympics. The biggest mistake of my life, on the biggest stage, and worse - it’s one that I can only blame on myself.

I don’t know if Roderick reads my thoughts on my face, or if he simply knows me so well that he’s able to anticipate them.

All I know for sure is that his next words confirm that he’s thinking about the previous Summer Games – and specifically, how I behaved during them.

He crosses his arms and stares at me. I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. I don’t know exactly what he’s thinking – but I’ve got a feeling it’s nothing good. For me, that is.

“Tim,” he finally says, “your dad’s about as mad at us as he’s ever been, wouldn’t you say?”

Our long-suffering assistant coach – and friend – blows out a heavy sigh. He’s never been crazy about getting dragged into Roderick’s and my disputes. “Yes.”

“And this most recent blow-up, it’s about more than just today’s incident, wouldn’t you say?”

I can tell Tim is starting to follow Roderick’s train of thought. His eyes narrow as he tries to anticipate what’s coming next.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t you think that most of his rage has a great deal to do with this royal buffoon’s actions at the Olympics?”

My whole life, I’ve worked hard to always be dignified, like an heir to the throne should be, so being called a buffoon grates. Unfortunately, he’s right, which is the only reason I don’t drive my fist into his nose.

I behaved badly, performed even worse, and let everyone down. And as much as I hate to admit it, I was the only one to blame.

“Yeah,” Tim says.

“Wouldn’t you say that if Prince Buffoon –,”

Roderick’s eyes grow brighter. Not only does the name tickle his absurd sense of humor, but he also knows how much it’s pissing me off. “– were to win the European Masters in four months, it’d go a long way towards easing your dad’s righteous rage.”

“It sure would.”

“I intend to win it, I growl. I can’t help myself. By now it’s an instinctual reaction. After all, if I claim gold this summer it will be for the fifth time in a row, something no other fencer has ever accomplished.

“Oh, I think we need to make sure you do,” Roderick says, “and after that stunt at the Olympics, I think Tim and I need to ensure that’s there’s no chance of you making a similar… error.”

“I won’t.” There’s no way I’ll ever do anything so incredibly stupid again. I still can’t believe I did it the first time. “I give you my word that I won’t screw up again.”

Roderick shakes his head.

“No,” he grins, dragging the word out, with gusto. “I don’t think your word is good enough. Not this time.”

I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation. I grind my teeth, but force out the words. “Okay, what will be enough?”

“Marriage,” Roderick says and a self-satisfied smile creeps across his face.

“I say it is high time you found yourself a consort, my Prince. The Queen has been talking about it for years. I think you should get married before the European Fencing Masters. I dare you to do it.”