A/N: So, I tried to do my research on fencing, but I really know nothing about it. I'm sorry if there are any terrible, glaring mistakes. Enjoy the chapter! Please Review!

Stupid.

Stupid.

I don't know an English word that could better describe what I've done. And though it pains me to think it, Volger was right. I should have never gone into that coffee shop, never joined the fencing team, and never tried to act like I could belong here. It's just made things worse. Out of habit, I reach up to run a hand through my hair, only to find it shorn off and my frustration renewed.

"Have you no capacity for thought, Aleksander? Do you realize how much danger you've put not just yourself but all of us in?" Volger demanded, his face slightly red despite his controlled tone.

"Count, I just-"

"I don't want to hear it, Aleksander. Save your excuses. The first thing tomorrow morning, we will be resigning you from that fencing team, and from now on one of us will escort you to and from school. You are not to leave this suite without my express permission. Don't argue with me, young prince; it will do you no good."

My gaze skittered around the room, searching desperately for something, anything, that would change his mind. Cooped up in this hotel room for anything but school–I'd go mad, I was sure. "What harm would it be? No one knows I'm any good at fencing–they think I haven't touched a saber or a foil in my life–and the coffee shop is poorly trafficked. The likelihood that I would be-"

"How thick exactly is your head? Do you not properly understand your situation?" He'd almost lost his cool by then, and the shock was apparent on ever face in the room. I wasn't sure if I had ever seen the man angry in a way that was not cold and cutting like a knife.

Hoffman, Bauer, and Klopp sat silently on the divan, avoiding my eyes. I wished they'd say something to stop Volger's rant, but deep down they must have known as well as I did that it was my job to deal with this. "Let me clear it up for you. Your parents have been murdered, with you likely next on the list, and your country is fighting a brutal civil war that has taken the lives of hundreds of your people already. And you are concerned with a petty fencing team and a tea shop. Tell me, how does this seem rational?"

Though the question begged no real reply, I opened my mouth anyway. "Nothing about any of this is rational! Do you honestly think I don't know what is happening in my own country, Count? Every day, I see the reports and read the newspapers, and it absolutely kills me that I am hiding in London while my people are dying and I am doing nothing to stop it! So forgive me if I am trying to distract myself from the shame of being a failure to them." Against my will, angry tears burn at the backs of my eyes. I blink them away. "And you are the one that said we should make ourselves at home here; we can't leave at least until the country stabilizes some, anyway."

I watched the anger drain from Volger's face, the red splotches on his cheeks replaced by his usual indifference. But if I wasn't mistaken, I also saw weariness there. "Young prince, you must know that I do not speak to you so out of spite. Our situation is too precarious to take such risks, especially that you may be recognized and your location known."

Lightning flickered outside, and the London rain I'd almost become accustomed to began to patter on the window. "So what if I make it so I won't be recognized? I'll change my appearance."

The muscles in the count's jaw worked as he thought over my statement. "That is hardly as simple as it seems, Aleksandar. Arriving at school with a new hair and eye color is sure to be noticed." He did not seem happy to be dashing my hopes, which was new to me.

I splayed my hands, brandishing my calloused palms as I shrugged. "Don't change the color, then. I'll-" I swallowed, barely aware of what I was saying or why I was saying it. "I'll cut off my hair."

From across the room, I could see the three men seated on the divan raise their eyebrows in unison. Understandably, seeing as the defining feature of Prince Aleksandar had always been his hair. Which was exactly why I needed to get rid of it. If I was to become someone else here–Ryan Thompson, according to the school–Aleksandar of Hohenberg needed to disappear.

"I can see to that," the count said calmly, showing no hint of surprise. "Nicely done, Aleksandar. You've learned the art of compromise."

Sighing, I drop my hand onto my lap. My fingers itch to explore the foreign feel of my hair now, almost ten centimeters shorter than before and considerably lighter. My anger dissipates, leaving me numb again.

After my confrontation with Matt, I took my lunch outside to finish. I'm sitting against the brick wall of one of the buildings–I don't even know which one it is–with the plastic container on the ground beside me. It's terribly cold out here, and as I eat my ham and crackers I watch the tips of my fingers turn pink and the breath comes out of my nose in puffs of condensation. The sky hangs heavy with clouds, threatening to drop its load on my lunch. I just hope the rain doesn't start before I finish.

I'm nibbling on my last cracker when someone finds me.

"And what are you doing sitting out here?" asks a female voice I don't recognize.

I look up to see a girl with dark amber skin, auburn hair pulled into a loose braid, and eyes that look like they're used to smiling. She's pretty, startlingly so, but I can't bring myself to think about that, no after what's just happened.

She wears a skirt that doesn't quite look like the others I've seen, and I'm reminded of the swirling fabrics that gypsies wore on my visit to Turkey. Hers, though, is of a dress-code approved navy and lacks any bells, and she wears it with a Leviathan blazer.

"Eating lunch," I say drily, wishing she would go away. "Obviously."

"A very strange place to do so," she muses, a slight roll on her "r"s marking her as foreign, "but I suppose you think lunchrooms are too mainstream. I'm always looking for someplace less crowded, anyway, so I'll just stay here."

With that, she sits down next to me unceremoniously, her ankle-length skirt fanning off to one side as she does so. I notice with interest that, despite how cold it is, she wears sandals. They're the kind that cling her feet with many different leather ties, beads strung on them at odd intervals.

I'm about to protest, but the words die in my mouth. I don't think she was just in the lunchroom to see my outburst, and she seems nice enough. "I'm Ryan," I say instead.

"That doesn't sound very Austrian," she tells me bluntly.

"I–what?" I splutter, a cold knot arresting the food in my stomach. My tongue feels dry in my mouth. How could she have–

"I'm going to university to be a language and communications major next year. I catch accents better than most," she clarifies. "I'm Lilit, by the way. Lilit Zavenian."

I let out a shaky breath, flexing my fingers to get the fear out of them. "Hello. If you don't mind my asking, where are you from, then? I have no talent with accents as you do."

"Istanbul, Turkey. My father is the ambassador to Britain, and I came along to live with him. London is so much more entertaining, don't you think?" Lilit looks at me around the sandwich she's pulled out of her backpack. It looks homemade, layered in clear plastic wrap. When I break her gaze, I can't help but look down at what was my lunch with a sense of envy. Someone made that sandwich and wrapped it up, probably this morning. My meal came from a factory that turns out hundreds a day.

"Yes," I agree, and change the subject with a sly grin. "What kind of meat is on your sandwich?"

"Not turkey, if that is what you were hinting at. Nice try, though; I'm a vegetarian. So it's spinach and cheese with mustard, if you must know."

Blinking, I nod. Lilit grins at me and takes a large bite out of a corner of her sandwich, chewing hurriedly. In the near-silence, I notice that the edges of her fingernails are coated in clay dust, and there are smudges on her skirt and blazer. "So you're an artist, then?"

She swallows quickly, nodding. "A sculptor, to be exact. I'm always late to lunch because I have open studio right ahead of it. Most days I end up eating at my work bench, but today I actually finished a little early."

I glance down at my watch, confused. "But lunch lasts half an hour, and we've barely two minutes left."

"Exactly."

I open my mouth to reply, but suddenly the bell rings. Lilit frowns. "It seems your estimate was a bit off." She stands, brushing dirt and clay dust from her skirt after rewrapping what is left of her sandwich. "Ah, well. I didn't think I was that early, anyway."

Standing as well, I find the nearest trash bin and toss my cardboard and plastic containers into it. "It was nice talking to you, Lilit," I tell her, because it would seem silly to say something like "Goodbye" or "I'll see you around".

"You, too," she replies, gripping the door handle of the building we were just sitting against. "And–Ryan–I know it's hard being new. Just–just let the dust settle before you expect things to feel normal. Time is a gift to the weary."

I only have time to wonder if she dabbles in poetry before she's ducked inside the building and out of my sight.

Stupid.

I've almost forgotten the word–or, rather, it's meaning–by the time the last bell of the day rings at 3:35. It wasn't easy, because I've been catching sideways glances and whispers since lunch, but somehow I managed.

And now I have to face up to my stupidity in all its glory.

Still, I take my time walking to the fencing gym. It's not that I'm afraid of losing–I am certain that I can best Matt at fencing–but I can't let myself win. Doing so would expose my skill, and go against Volger's explicit command. Now, I must lose and suffer the consequences.

Why couldn't I have just kept my mouth shut? Back in the palace, I was good enough at it. I'd always faced criticism for my blood–a strange thing, considering who Prince William married just recently. But I suppose Austria is a little more old-fashioned than Great Britain.

I grip the cold handle of the door to the gym and take a deep breath before I pull it open. When I do, the first thing I notice is the noise; usually, there is only the subdued conversation of those practicing their fencing bouncing off the walls. Now, most of the student body has packed inside and they chatter excitedly. My name–or rather, the name "Ryan Thompson"–floats around the gym and hangs in the air. My stomach sinks even farther.

Well, I didn't really expect this to be a private ordeal, did I?

I try to sneak past the gazes of the spectators to the changing rooms, but it's inevitable that someone sees me. A hush falls over the gym, but the level of anticipation only grows.

The feel of so many eyes on my back is oppressive, no matter how I try to ignore it. I escape into the locker room, and hurry over to my locker so I can change into gear, glad that the JV and varsity locker rooms are separate. I have to hurry, because I only have five minutes before our match begins, and I don't want to be late.

Somehow, though, I find myself sitting on the bench halfway through changing my shirt, rubbing my forehead and staring at the floor. The off-white concrete is covered in scuff marks and hasn't been swept yet today, so everything is dusted with a thin layer of dirt. My skin, a few shades darker than the floor, prickles with goosebumps all the way up my arms and over my chest. I wring out my hands and reach slowly for a t-shirt to wear under my jacket and plastron. As my fingers close around the collar, I hear the door open with a creak.

"Ryan? Alek, whatever," Newkirk says, coming around the corner. "So many people are out there talking about you that I can't keep the two names straight. Sorry."

I bite my lip, turning the shirt right-side out before pulling it over my head. It still smells faintly of sweat from practice this morning, but I'm beyond caring. "Hello. Come to wish me luck?"

"Something like that," he replies, picking up my jacket and handing it to me. "I came to give you some advice."

"Advice?" I blink.

Newkirk looks around the room. "Yes. I was on the team last year, so I know Weldon's weaknesses."

I slip my arms into the sleeves of the jacket and zip it up. "Why don't you still fence?" I ask, not able to stop myself. It isn't the first time today.

"I got kicked off in the middle of last year for fighting, among other things. And now... my heart isn't in it anymore." He pauses, as if contemplating whether to say something more. "He keeps his guard low," Newkirk continues. "He always told me he could strike quicker that way, and that it helped him get around his opponent's guard, but I never believed that. He's light on his toes and he strikes quickly, usually trying to push back at least to the warning line so his opponent gets desperate. Got it?"

"Yes," I say, though I wasn't really paying attention.

"And, Alek, he has a way of getting under people's skin, making them angry too easily. He has a special talent for it, and I've fallen prey to his tricks too many times to let you suffer from it, too. You have to keep your head around him, because otherwise you end up doing stupid things."

"Yes, I'd figured that part out. How do you think I got here?" I splay my hands.

He shrugs. "Fair enough. You can still back out of this, you know. I don't know how good you really are at this, but..."

Our gazes meet, and I sigh. "This isn't a matter of my fencing skills, Newkirk."

He nods. "I see. Good luck, then. It's four o'clock." The door squeaks again as he exits, leaving me alone to tie my shoes and pick up my mask.

When I walk out into the gym, Matt is waiting for me on the center piste. I've left my mask off so that everyone can see my face; determined, prepared. Calm. The crowd parts around me, and I have a clear path to my starting position. I ignore the gazes of my audience again, focusing my attention on Matt to gauge everything that could affect our match. His shoulders are tight, but his eyes are unwavering from mine.

Just as I finish securing my mask, he tosses me a foil. I barely grasp the hilt, but let it swing around my finger before I catch it firmly to make the movement look intentional. I test the weight of the foil, getting used to the feel of it. He nods, and we salute each other.

I can't see his lips moving through the metallic mesh of his mask, but his voice is clear. "Shall we make this a regular bout, or cut the number of hits to shorten your humiliation?"

"First to five," I bark, ready to get this over with. I already know what the outcome will be.

The shadow of a grin shows through his mask. "Five it is. En guard..."

We're playing dry–not hooked up to an electric scoring system–so points will be awarded through our honesty and the eyes of the audience. I only hope they call fairly.

The student playing as referee calls our start, and immediately Matt begins bouncing back and forth on his feet. I would, too–it's proper form–but I must make myself look inept at the sport. I'll make it close, to be sure, but I will lose nonetheless. So instead I shift my weight slowly, as if I am uncertain.

Matt wastes no time with a lunge, and I make a quick parry and step back. If he likes to drive his opponent back, I'll let him. He moves in closer, his stance wide as he shifts forward. The tip of his foil bobs with each step. Mistiming a lunge, Matt leaps toward me and leaves himself wide open for a thrust. I almost flick my foil in for an easy point, but hold back.

My indecision gives him time to touch my plastron. The crowd bursts out in cheers, making sure the referee caught the movement. I swear for effect as the referee calls a stop and awards Matt a point. Under his mask, I can see him smiling.

We reset our positions, and as soon as we are given the cue to begin, Matt lunges. He makes the same mistake as before, and I almost make it look like an accident when I catch him squarely on the chest with the tip of my foil. The audience hesitates more in calling my point, but they are at least honest.

As we move to the starting lines again, I hear the door to the gym open and see Deryn slipping through. There isn't time to comprehend the look on her face before I hear "Allez"–the command to begin.

Our foils flash, and after almost thirty seconds, Matt scores. I lift my mask long enough to wipe the sweat collected off my forehead. As much as I hate to admit it, he is good.

I've fallen into the rhythm of the sport, years of training in the correct form forcing me out of my false imperfections. We are almost an even match, and we trade off points until the score is four to four.

The noise has dampened, all our spectators in quiet anticipation of the last point. My attention is focused solely on Matt, zeroing in on anything that could give me the advantage. As he wears out, I've noticed that his guard is indeed low. He can make quicker thrusts from there, but that means that I can easily make a riposte from my parries and strike his chest. He grips the foil a little too tightly now. All I have to do is–

Lose. Let him make the touch, I command myself firmly. This has gone too far already.

"May the best fencer win," Matt says, low enough that only I can hear it. And then, barely audible, "I only hope you aren't a sore loser."

A spark of anger ignites in my chest, spreading into my sword-arm until I don't feel the tiredness in my muscles any more. It burns in my head, the smoke smothering logic. His head is so big it'll hurt when I shove it up his–

I hear "Allez" and my body takes over.

Quick as lightning, we're engaged in a flurry of thrusts, parries, and ripostes. I push him back with ease, finally fencing to the fullest of my capabilities. I can tell now that he wasn't putting forth a complete effort, either, because he uses increasingly difficult moves. He's getting desperate now, his parries sloppy. In a final attempt to avoid my attacks, Matt performs an incortata, flinging his left hand back to dodge my thrust. I almost fall onto the tip of his foil–the ultimate purpose of the move–but push his blade aside with my own, regaining my balance. Quickly, I spin my foil around his and land a solid blow near his armpit.

The crowd erupts into cheers, hesitant at first but then growing in volume. The referee pats me on the back, calling out my name as the winner. Out of the corner of my eye, Matt throws his mask on the floor, and his hair is pasted to his forehead with sweat. He shouts something, and although I don't hear him over the din, the look on his face is terrifying. It takes a moment for the past few seconds of event to sink in, and as the mob of people descends to congratulate me, bewilderment and disbelief replace the cloud of angry smoke.

Stupid.