Suddenly, James pushes his way between us. I’ve no idea how he got here. How he knew to come. Relief floods me though at his presence, at not being alone. “I’ve been teaching her,” he shouts, no hesitation, just like he’d promised.
Mr. Murphy wavers like he needs to be sure he heard right. “You’ve what?” he says, soft and firm. Somehow, it’s scarier than shouting.
“I’ve taught her how to craft bronze,” James dares to repeat. He lifts his chin higher, defiant. “And silver.”
I hold my breath. That is until James’s father pulls back a hand and hits James across his face. Then I scream.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONEWHEN A THREAT IS MADE, AND ANSWERED
JAMES
Iexpect a slap like the dozens he’s doled out, but my father’s hand cracks against my jaw with such shocking force I’m sure he punched me. I fall to the ground, shooting even more pain into my shoulder.
The dragon closest to me growls. Farren is by my side in an instant, her hand on my back, helping me sit up. “James,” she inhales in shock.
I blink and try to focus on her rather than the pain. One of Dad’s rings must’ve cut my cheek, because my hand comes back slick red. I should be scared. Scared like when he broke my arm. Instead, anger wells up inside me, spilling over like my own blood.
As I stand, he tries to slam me back down with his words. “Ditters told me how you pine after this girl. I knew you might break my rule, but never did I think you’d betray me in this way. Betray our entire way of life.”
Of course, that’s what this all comes back to, the one rule. Me, forsaking the bloodline by liking someone he thinks beneath me. One day I hope I can tell my parents of Walsh’s real status, just to see them squirm, to question everything they know. I spit blood. “Our way of life?”
“There are rules set in place. Hierarchy. One must pay their dues to move up the ladder.”
“Or what? Crafters you didn’t approve of can craft silver? Can become better than you?”
“So young and foolish. The system is set in place. I didn’t create it. But I follow it for the good of our society.”
Good of our society?My father isn’t one for explanations or long speeches so maybe I was just uninformed of how exactly he would defend his beliefs. But I should have tested him if he’s justifying the unfairness of crafter classification and dragon treatment with an uninspired “good of society.”
“Farren, let’s go.” I march toward the open training field, toward Bex, Hort, and Dr. Walsh. I take Farren’s hand in mine to ensure she’s with me. She squeezes back and jogs a step to keep up.
My father follows, his own steps heavy in the dirt. Dragons alongside us pace, riled up like a storm brews on the horizon. All my emotions thunder.
The light to the tournament grounds lies just in front of us. I’m so focused on escape, the rounded cave-like entrance, that I notice the moment it begins closing. The silver-plated gate slides downward with a clanging whoosh and we drown in darkness. A dragon’s yellow glowing eyes become the only light. Farren gasps beside me. Her other hand not in mine clasps my bicep. Now I’m scared. Scared for Farren. Before he broke my bones, I assumed our paternal connection saved me from physical abuse. But for Farren? He doesn’t even use her name.
“You two aren’t going anywhere.” Behind us, my father’s voice sounds even colder—or maybe that’s the pitch-black gloom enhancing his menace. He always felt more powerful in the dark.
“James,” Farren whispers. It’s concern as much as question.
“Help me craft open the gate,” I answer.
“You aren’t opening that—” My father starts.
I throw everything I have in lifting the silver metal frame. Farren could do this by herself. Even with my father crafting the door in place. So together it’s easy. With a screech we tear the bolted hinges at the bottom and break into sunlight.
The door slamming closed must have caught everyone’s attention, for an audience awaits us. Dr. Walsh stands mere feet away. Rohan just beyond with Bex and Hort, forgotten.
But it’s my mom my eyes focus on. “Mom?”
One look at me, my cheek, and I can tell she knows. Understanding screws her face up in hurt. Her eyes shoot over my shoulder. “John?” It’s lifted into a question, but then again, the cold pain infused in the one syllable tells everyone it’s more an accusation. Mom charges toward him, shaking her head like she can’t bear to say the next thing. Then the words tumble out. “You said it would never happen again.”
“He’s broken the law. Taught the girl silver-crafting.”
“Broken the—? I don’t care. Idon’tcare. You hurt our baby.”
My father pulls back an arm like he’s going to silence her the same way he silences me.
On instinct I craft. Pull silver from the torn-apart door and encase his arm, willing him into stillness. One flick of his free hand and the metal cracks open as if I wrapped him up in tin foil. I try to fight for control. But years of experience and muscle mass beat me. The silver carves away from his arm like he’s wrenching open a present. “You dare try to craft against me, restrain me?”
