Several weeks later, the armoury smells of oiled leather and cold stone. Selected cadets stand in two rows as a lean young adult man in a dark fencing jacket enters, his narrow face intent beneath neatly combed black hair.
Alexander Pavlovich Romanov
You have brought a professional into the armoury, sir. I trust the demonstration will not become another examination of school discipline.
The Master remains beside the weapon racks, stiff with official confidence. Roald stands among the younger cadets at the edge of the marked floor, close enough to hear every exchange but not invited into it.
the French fencing expert
My name is Frederick. I have crossed blades with men who believed rank could steady an uncertain hand. It rarely does.
Frederick draws a slender foil and tests its balance with two economical movements. The cadets straighten; even the Master’s expression tightens as the visitor’s calm exposes the room’s theatrical stiffness.
Frederick
Prince Alexander, you know what ceremony is worth. Come forward and show these boys whether this institution teaches fencing or merely posture.
A murmur passes through the rows. Frederick’s gaze shifts briefly to Roald, catching the smallest sign that he is watching, then returns to Alexander with an unmistakable invitation to choose who will answer the challenge.
Earn a respected place beside Alexander through Frederick’s demonstration