A/N: *cackles evilly*

"Ladies and gentlemen, this really is the moment we've all been waiting for. Two teams competing for a qualifying spot in the semi-finals meet next weekend, and this match could not be more intense!"

The voice of Edward Malone rings through the gymnasium like an alarm clock, irritating and difficult to tune out. His voice is apparently too loud for the radio alone, so he blasts through the speaker system as well.

Aside from that, it's oddly quiet now that today's meet is drawing to a close. The majority of the spectators have their attention focused on piste one, where the final match is playing out, and most of the competitors are in the locker rooms changing and collecting their things. I, like the rest of my teammates, am standing as close to the piste as is allowed.

This duel is very important to the team, after all.

"In moments, either the Stowe Lions or the Leviathan Strafing Hawks will qualify for the Regional Semi-Finals. Competing in the final round of today's tournament are Walter Jackson of Stow Preparatory School and Ryan Thompson of Leviathan Private School, for those of you just tuning in."

It's easy to tell the two fencers apart, even though their gear is nearly identical. Alek holds himself differently, almost regally, and the other boy has a stubborn set to his shoulders that speaks of defiance rather than entitlement. He is fighting for his position, and Alek has already claimed it.

Which makes sense as Alek demolishes his opponent in the next few bouts, taking the tournament as his own.

"And that is it, ladies and gentlemen! The final point of today's tournament has just been scored by Leviathan's own Ryan Thompson, winning him the first place spot and his team an automatic placement in next week's semi-finals!"

Our reaction is immediate. We whoop with excitement and jitter in place as Alek shakes Walter's hand before stepping off the piste. The moment he does, a mass of bouncing teenagers swallows him whole.

"Tune in next Saturday starting at eight A.M. for live coverage of the event, but until then this is Eddie Malone, reporter for London's number one newspaper, The Times, wishing you a fantastic week."

Resolving not to be trampled by the swarm that surrounds Alek, I linger at the edge of the mob and hope they don't injure him. In order for Alek to compete at the semi-finals meet next weekend, we need him in one piece.

And against my better judgement, a giddy smile spreads across my face. Because he won.

It's a perfectly reasonable reaction, of course, and I'm certain that I would be doing the same thing if any team member had won a fencing tournament. The fact that this is Alek's victory has nothing to do with it.

Nothing at all.

A long time passes before the lip-cracking smiles fade enough that exhaustion from a long day takes over, and most of the team shuffles off to the locker rooms. Alek, finally visible again, looks slightly stricken.

I walk over and punch him on the arm, fist coming away damp with his sweat. "You okay, daftie?"

Alek blinks a few times, turning to me. "Yes. But that–" he hikes a thumb at the receding mob "–was more than I was prepared for."

With the heel of a hand, Alek wipes his forehead. We walk to the edge of the gym so he can lean against the wall and catch his breath, and on the way I detour to the team's "camp" and snag his water bottle. When I offer it to him, he accepts gratefully.

I frown and take a deep breath. "Alek...why did you beat him?"

"I–uh..." He tugs at his lower lip with his teeth, thinking. "Because my fencing has improved so much over the last few months?"

I cross my arms. "We both know that's a lie."

Alek flinches, his gaze dropping to the gym floor. "Why do you care?" he asks quietly.

Suddenly, I understand why he finds the floor so interesting to look at. Wood paneling peeks out from underneath the shiny blue fencing matts. "I don't," I lie. "I was just wondering... in the best interest of the team, you know."

From the corner of my eye, I see his head snap up. His hair, which has grown out a little in the last few weeks, stays plastered to his forehead. "That's why. That's exactly why."

"What is?"

"That's why I won," explains Alek, rolling the water bottle in his hands. "I care too much about the team to sabotage it by not doing my best. It's–"

He crashes to the ground with a look of surprise frozen on his face and an extra set of legs tangled in his.

"YOU DID IT!" his attacker yells, and I can't help but smile when I recognize Newkirk. "YOU WON!"

Rachel, a few steps behind Newkirk, watches them with crossed arms and an amused grin. We exchange a knowing look as Nathan and Robert catch up to her, both freshly showered and wearing jeans and hoodies.

"Didn't I make him promise not to make a scene?" Fitzroy asks no one in particular, one eyebrow raised.

It's Newkirk who pops up from the ground first. "Technically, you said not to make 'too much' of one. They're totally different. And it's not my fault he fell down."

Accepting Newkirk's extended hand, Alek pulls himself off the floor. Brushing dust from his white uniform, he cries indignantly: "You tackled me! How is that myfault?"

For this question, he receives a raised eyebrow and an arm around his shoulder. Newkirk sighs, and then begins shaking Alek excitedly. "It's your fault because YOU WON!"

Rachel clasps her hands together. "Okay, this conversation is going nowhere," she says, and carefully extracts her boyfriend from a stricken Alek's shoulder. "How would the four of you like to join us for dinner to celebrate?"

"To celebrate this conversation going nowhere?" Nathan smirks.

His sister rolls her eyes. "I'm not going to dignify that with a response."

"You just did."

"Shut up."

"That sounds like a fantastic idea," I say, breaking into siblings' glaring contest, because I know how long those can last, and we don't have time.

"Rachel shutting up does sound li–"

"So where are we going for dinner?" I cut in.

Rachel blinks. "I thought we'd let the winner decide. It seems fitting, you know?"

We all turn to Alek.

"Uh–" he chokes, and spreads his hands. "I don't know! I really don't eat out much. Can't we just go to Rigby's and–"

"No!" Newkirk, Fitzroy, and I groan in unison.

"Fine." Alek sighs, defeated. "But I'm not allowed to eat out, so it doesn't matter, anyway."

"Yeah, but hypothetically," Robert suggests.

Alek scowls and wrings his hands with exasperation. "Well," he begins, but his grimace is like pulling teeth, "There's a restaurant about a kilometer from the school that I read has pretty good Kaiserschmarrn."

Newkirk coughs. "Koo-what?"

"It doesn't matter," dismisses Alek, running a hand through his hair. "I'm going to go take a shower."

He turns to leave but doesn't get very far. A man comes running up to him, waving his arm as though he could have been missed otherwise. "Ryan Thompson! Edward Malone, from The Times," he announces in a painfully loud and familiar voice. "If you don't mind, I'd like to interview you for an article." He pushes a pair of circular glasses up the bridge of his nose and looks expectantly at my friend.

Alek shakes his head. "No, thank you."

"It will only take a few moments," the man continues as though he didn't hear Alek's refusal. "And I am so very interested in your story. Tell me, did you expect to be such an exceptional fencer? Your coach tells me you only began fencing several months ago."

The reporter puts a hand on Alek's shoulder and steers him to a seat on the now-empty bleachers.

Robert and I exchange a worried glance–he and I both know that Alek's real identity is a secret, even though we don't know what it is. Nonetheless, an interview and an article in "London's number one newspaper" sounds like it could be dangerous for him.

I take a quick look at Alek, who seems to be holding his own against the reporter, and then shrug at Fitzroy. He nods. There's not anything we can do.

"What was that thing he mentioned?" Newkirk inquires, smartphone at the ready. "Ker-something-or-another."

"Kaiserschmarrn," Rachel tells him flatly. She responds to our questioning glances by saying that she's taking entry-level German classes and that she had it as a vocabulary word a long time ago. Also, she has a very good memory.

Newkirk nods, impressed, and Nathan mutters that his sister is a show-off. While the other three are hunched over the screen of Newkirk's phone, Googling the food, Nathan comes to stand by me. He leans in, saying quietly: "I like your necklace. It's very..."

My hand flies to my neck, clasping the trinket reflexively. "Thanks."

"Where do you get something like that?"

Now my fingers wrap around it totally, concealing the charm from view. It's a smooth scrap of metal, abstract and unique, and it hangs on a piece of black nylon string. Most of the time, it stays hidden safely under the collar of my shirt so that no one can see it. Barely anyone knows I wear the necklace, which I prefer. It's odd, I suppose, to wear the necklace and hide it, but I can't bear to take the thing off.

"Long story, that," I reply, studying the various banners along the wall above the bleachers.

He shrugs, glancing over at the rest of the group. "There's time."

"Trust me. There isn't." I stuff the necklace under my shirt, shaking my head. My hands drop down to my sides, and to keep from letting them clench into fists, I rub the fabric at the bottom of my jacket between my fingers.

Nathan shifts his weight to one side, dark brown eyes narrowed slightly. "Well, anyway, it's cool. Kind of edgy."

I nod.

"So it's basically a pancake?" Newkirk wonders incredulously, loud enough to grab my attention. At first I frown, not sure what he's talking about, until I remember the odd food Alek mentioned.

Rachel, peering over his shoulder at the screen, frowns. "Have some respect; it says it's a traditional Austrian dessert. Or meal. Or something–maybe try a different page?"

"This is the only one that tells me what it is. The rest are junk websites or in another language."

"I doubt it."

"Look for yourself, then." He offers the phone to her, and she angles herself so that Nathan and I can see the screen, too. She hits a button, and the image dissolves into a search engine results page.

I scan the list, and indeed find several useless webpages–an advertisement for a vegan cookbook featuring a recipe for Kaiserschmarrn, a fan site about a prince-or-something and his favorite food, and a translation website. But underneath all that, Wikipedia appears to save the day.

Robert huffs out a breath as he watches Rachel scroll down the page. "That's more than I ever wanted to know about any kind of food."

"Funny, considering some almost killed you last month," Newkirk jabs.

His shoulders droop. "Too soon. It will always be too soon."

I roll my eyes and step back from the group in time to see Alek making his way back over. Malone is still sitting on the bleachers, scribbling things down into his notebook madly, flipping between pages and nodding or shaking his head in turn.

As Alek comes closer, I can see the line of salt residue where his sweat has dried, and how drawn and tired his face looks.

"You okay?" I ask quietly.

He nods, gnawing on his lip. "Yes. But I really am going to take a shower now."

My nose wrinkles when his smell catches up to the rest of him. "Good idea."

With a mighty yawn, he shambles off in the direction of the locker rooms. Newkirk, Rachel, and Fitzroy all make various excuses about collecting their bags, and after a few minutes they are gone, too.

Nathan lets out a heavy breath. "I have absolutely nowhere to be."

I shrug. "Neither do I."

"So..." his voice trails off, following his eyes to a pair strolling across the gym, hand in hand.

Squinting, I realize who it is. "That bum rag!" I hiss, fists clenching so tight my fingernails carve dents into my palms.

A tall boy with black hair and icy blue eyes bumps elbows with my fencing partner, Melissa. She died her hair brown this week from blond, so I don't recognize her immediately. Betrayal and pity rise in my throat like they know each other well. I wish she realized–

"Matt," Nathan growls, echoing my thoughts exactly.

I frown. "Do you know him?"

"Long story, that," he says, giving me a withering look.

"Touché." My eyes track the couple's progress across the gym until I can't stand to watch anymore. "Well, I know him too well. We dated for a while, and he's such a... he's just..."

"A bum rag? Yeah, I'd figured that one out."

A vindictive laugh escapes my lips. "You have no idea how–"

"I do, actually." Nathan pauses for a moment, chewing on whether to continue. "I asked him out last year."

"And my guess is that didn't end well?"

He scoffs. "That would be an understatement. Not only did he shoot me down–publicly–he makes a point of treating me like the scum of the earth whenever we meet."

It's obvious that he's leaving out a lot of the story, but I don't press. There is so much raw pain and anger in his voice that I want to pull him into a hug and tell him it will be okay. But I can't begin to understand what that must have felt like, targeted and humiliated for expressing himself.

"It's actually how Newkirk and I became friends," Nathan continues. "Through our mutual hate of Matt. And because my sister, of course, but only one of us can't stand her."

He is wearing a smile now, even though it's forced.

"You can add me to that group, then," I tell him. "I'd be happy if I never had to see him again. It's too bad we go to the same school."

Nathan nods. "Speaking of which–does Aaron Mitchell go to your school?"

"Who?"

"Apparently not. You'd know if he did."

"Who?" I demand. The name is less than familiar.

One of his eyebrows scrunches down, and he tugs the arms of his sweatshirt down over his wrists. "More commonly known in the fencing world as 'The Behemoth'. He's won the regional championships as a tenth and eleventh year, and most people think he'll take the trophy this year, no problem."

"That's... intimidating."

He shrugs, and steps back enough that he can lean against the wall. "Not so much. He's actually pretty nice."

I place one palm on the wall and a seductive look on my face. "Does someone have a crush?"

"No!" Nathan turns bright pink. "Not on him, anyway."

A grin creeps across my face. I think I know who he means. "Well, good luck."

He opens his mouth to say something, but a different voice fills the silence. "Excuse me? I couldn't help but notice that you seem to be good friends with Mr. Thompson."

I turn with an exasperated sigh. "Hello, Mr. Malone."

"Ah, good. I can skip my introduction. If you would be so kind as to answer a few questions for my article...?"

I spread my hands. "I'm kind of in the middle of a conversation."

"No, it's fine," Nathan says, shaking his head. "I have to leave anyway. It was nice talking to you, Deryn."

As he retreats, I pin his back with a glare that could melt rocks.

"Perfect. Your first and last name, please?" Malone queries without preamble.

I cross my arms. "Deryn Sharp."

The reporter nods, and leads me over to the bleachers so we can sit. He produces a worn pad of paper and a pen from his lapel pocket and scratches down my name.

"So, you and he go to Leviathan Private School together?"

"Yes." My eyes roll almost of their own will.

"Your friend told me you were both new students at the same time. That's an odd coincidence, don't you think?"

"Sure, I guess."

"But you didn't know him before that, correct?"

"No, I didn't. Isn't this interview supposed to be about how Alek won the tournament?"

Malone blinks, narrowing his eyes. "Ah, yes. But I need some background on your friend to write a proper article." He watches me through thick glasses with his pen poised to write down my answers. "So what can you tell me about Alek?"

I swallow. "It's really not my place to say–"

"Humor me, Miss Sharp," he insists. "Surely there is nothing to hide?"

A sudden and intense flare of unease explodes in my chest, and I stand abruptly. My shoes squeak on the polished wood floor. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Malone, but this interview is quite finished. Have a nice day."

He sighs and places a hand gently on my arm as I take a step away. "I believe I decide when this interview about your friend Alek is over. Do you understand, Miss Sharp?"

I sink back onto the bench with the icy weight of dread arresting my body. "No," I gasp quietly. "Oh, no."

Malone pats my hand, which is curled in a tight fist.

"Miss Sharp, I have no intention of hurting Aleksandar. Austrian politics are of no interest to me as anything other than a writer."

Austrian... politics?

And so all in one moment, the realization crashes down on me. What was before a trickle of suspicion–vague excuses, new haircuts, classroom discussions, and favorite foods–becomes a torrent of understanding.

One of my best friends is a barking prince.

I slam back into my own body with a gasp. "How did you find him out? Does anyone else know?"

"Your concern is refreshing, Miss Sharp. Though I can not promise that I am the only person outside of his confidence that knows who he is, I assure you I work alone in this matter. I only stumbled upon his identity by accident."

"By accident?" I demand, head spinning.

"Oh, yes. My close friend Nikola Tesla is head of the fencing board, and I assist him in verifying the records of all those who qualify for the quarter finals. This ensures that all participants are legitimate, and not hired to win a trophy for a school. We've been burned before, but that story is for another time.

"When I happened upon your friend's transcripts, they caught my attention. I noticed early on this season that, though he takes great pains to hide them, your friend possesses skills of an almost professional level. His papers, though, claim he's never fenced before enrolling at Leviathan. After some research, I discovered that Ryan Thompson simply does not exist.

"You see, Miss Sharp, being a journalist, I know a lot about world events. In my line of work, two things that match up so well as a boy that stopped existing just as suddenly as another started, well–it could not have been a coincidence. And I have you to thank for confirming my theory."

I shove a desperate hand through my hair, which tugs more than half out of its ponytail. It hangs limply around my face, but I can't be brought to notice.

"This is the story of a lifetime for me, really," Malone continues as though the world hasn't just shattered. "The lost prince found in London, fencing of all things. Your friend's real id–"

"Stop calling him that!" I explode, ready to tear off my own skin with frustration. "I'm not his friend."

If I was, I would have kept my mouth shut and never said a word to a nosy reporter. Or I could have at least remembered to use his barking fake name. No, I'm not his friend at all after this. I might as well be his worst enemy.

"We both know that isn't true, Miss Sharp," he chastens, and makes a tsp sound like he's scolding a child.

I hate this man with blinding fury, but even through that an idea is worming its way into my mind. "It is a fantastic story," I begin, though the words taste like vomit.

Malone goes still. "Yes, it is. It will make my career."

"But after you run it, he won't be able to compete anymore; the rules won't allow it, I'm sure. He has a fake identity and false transcripts."

"What are you implying, Miss Sharp?"

A part of me is curling its lip in disgust at this plan, but the other part forces it out of my mouth. "That the story would be even better if you let him go on to next weekend, and maybe even to the finals. Think of how explosive it would be if Aleksandar of Hohenberg won the regional tournament."

The reporter's eyes glimmer with excitement. He considers the suggestion for a few more moments, weighing potential risks and benefits. "There isn't any harm in waiting two more weeks, I suppose. I like the way you think, Deryn Sharp."

I can't possibly say anything to agree, because I feel dirty and ashamed.

Malone's head tilts. "He means a lot to you," he observes, with remarkable tenderness. "I can see it in your eyes."

Unable to stand it anymore, I push to my feet. "Yes, he does. More than you can imagine."

"And yet–you didn't really know who he was, did you? I can see that, too."

The floor is the only thing that seems worthy of my bleary gaze. "No."

As I walk away, toward the locker rooms that are still spitting out teenagers, I hear the man say: "We'll be seeing the two of you next week, Miss Sharp. It's been lovely meeting you."

I find the wall and lean against it so I don't collapse with shock. The cool bricks do nothing to help my aching head. I reach for the charm tied around my neck and close my fist around it, feeling again the terror of everything moving too fast and seeing what's coming only after there is nothing I can do to stop it. The impact of a collision that never should have happened but was always going to.

Barely a minute passes before a callused hand closes down on my shoulder. "Are you feeling alright, Deryn?"

The owner of that voice has green eyes too young to be so filled with sorrow and too many secrets that I should have never had to keep.

I sink to the floor. "Alek, I'm so sorry."

"Deryn, what is it? What's wrong?" His clothes rustle as he kneels beside me.

"He knows. Malone. He knows who you are, and I–and it's my fault. I'm so sorry." Guilt clouds my vision and keeps my eyes from finding his.

Alek stutters for a moment, grasping at words. "What do you mean?"

I reach for his collar, pulling him close and whispering, harshly: "You're Aleksandar of Hohenberg. The lost prince."

He reels back, and only then can I look at him. His appearance is that of a bullied child; sprawled on the ground and consumed in terror.

"No." Alek wraps his arms around his legs and closes in on himself like he could hold his secrets together instead of letting them crash down around him.

My mouth opens to speak, but at first all that comes out is a choked sob. Then it turns into a fragmented explanation that stumbles over itself like a landslide.

"–But he won't publish the story yet. Not until you're done competing," I finish.

Alek turns a blank gaze on me. "Done competing?"

"If you place next week and go on to the finals, he won't run it until after the tournament. Two weeks. We made a deal."

He shakes his head, but scoots a few inches closer to brace his shoulder against the wall. We must look odd, the two of us sitting on a gymnasium floor after our lives have turned upside down.

"You'll have to leave, won't you?" I mutter hoarsely. The thought of losing him hits me like a rock, and I fall onto Alek's shoulder and hug him tight, as though that can stop him from going away. His arms wrap around me. "Really leave."

"Yes, I will," he murmurs into my t-shirt. "I just don't now when. I should tell Volger, but–he'd makes us leave tonight."

He takes a deep breath, locking another secret into place. "Two weeks isn't enough, but if it is all I have left then I'm going to take it."

My breath hitches, and I try to hide from the finality of it all in his over-washed sweater.

Alek squeezes me tighter. "This was going to happen anyway; I was a fool if I ever thought it wouldn't." He swallows. "I'm just sorry you got pulled into this."

I let a few tears slip out and crawl down my cheeks.

"I'm not."