Page 30 of The Throne's Undoing

The boots turned, and a shout ripped through the air, "Graeson!"

Kallie's lungs collapsed. Her heart thumped in her chest as a surge of panic crept up her throat.

"Shit," another man growled in a low voice as more boots pounded on the ground and swords clanged together.

She couldn't just sit here.

Not if Graeson was here.

She had to do something.

Her father would want her to do something.

Kallie pushed through the soreness coating her bones and moved past the heaviness soaking her limbs.

The scene unfolded before her: men and women fought all around her, their faces glistening with sweat and their muscles straining. Almost immediately, she found Graeson among the fray, as if some inexplicable, magnetic force she could not deny pulled her toward him.

The sunlight struck his jet-black hair as he wielded his scimitars as though they were an extension of him. Dirt and gore stained his clothes, though Kallie knew unequivocally that none of it belonged to him. He was too skilled for that.

She mustered the strength to lift herself up and onto her elbows. While she may have admired his technique, Kallie only felt one thing as she stared at Graeson: absolute rage.

Chapter 9

GRAESON

Fury roaredthrough Graeson's body as he swung his scimitars with practiced ease. With each clang of metal, the god inside seeped out a little more, pushing his humanity back bit by bit.

All the anger Graeson had been holding back bled from his hands and into the blades. Each opponent he met fell, their life spilling onto the earth, which greedily ate it up as he moved on to the next victim.

An energy flowed through him as he twisted and slashed. He was unhinged, unstoppable, and completely unmerciful.

Then, as Graeson lifted his blade, something called to him, beckoning him to turn around. When he tried to spin around to the call, his feet were swept from under him, and his back hit the ground with a hard thump. Dirt flew in the air.

Before Graeson could clear the ringing from his head, a weight pressed on him, flattening him against the ground. Sharp nails dug into his hair and yanked his head up before slamming it into the ground again.

Graeson hissed, eyes springing open in anger. But for the first time in his life, he was helpless as he stared at the assailant.

He swallowed the vitriol sitting on the tip of his tongue the second he took in the brown, chestnut waves falling around his face. The thick halo of hair blocked out the battle happening around them. And though his friends struggled, he was speechless as deep blue eyes swimming with shadows stared at him.

Graeson pushed past the god taking hold of his body as the woman he would do anything for sat atop him, regarding him without mercy.

"Kalisandre?" he whispered, awestruck. She shouldn't have been awake. Had something happened to Terin? Had he been--

"You bastard!" Kalisandre shouted, wrapping her hands around his throat, strangling him, and forcing his previous thoughts back.

A raging storm brewed within her sea-blue eyes. Yet, despite the wrath roaring, he wanted to get lost in the sea. He would gladly drown within them.

Kalisandre's slim fingers tightened around his throat, and for a second, Graeson let them.

He let her rage fuel the storm. He let her release her wrath and pour it into him because at least this, the anger burning in her eyes, was better than the lifeless body they had been carrying across the Frenzian lands.

He would happily take her anger, her rage, over watching her wither away before him. He would rather face her wrath than wonder what would become of her if they took too long to reach safety.

And perhaps Graeson let Kalisandre's grip tighten around his throat longer than he should have because, more than anything else, he deserved it.

He deserved her fury, her anger, her hate, for he had taken the one thing she had always strived to gain: a choice.

Again.

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