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Silvers are supposed to fight bravely, to flaunt their skills, to put on a good show—but not die. After all, they aren’t Reds.
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The gods rule us still. They have come down from the stars. And they are no longer kind.
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Whispers are rare, dangerous, and powerful, even among the Silvers, even in the capital.
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The rumors about them vary, but it boils down to something simple and chilling: they can enter your head, read your thoughts, and control your mind.
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“Poor fool,” I mutter. It seems Kilorn is right. Nothing but a punching bag.
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His mouth falls open, like he’s gone slow or stupid. Like his mind is gone.
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He just needs to see it and trick himself into thinking they are truly human, that they can be hurt and defeated. But I know better. Their blood is a threat, a warning, a promise. We are not the same and never will be.
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He honestly wants to see blood, Silver blood—silverblood—stain the arena.
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Many Reds gamble their earnings on the fights, hoping to win a little something to help them get through another week.
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Let them ruin each other, he says. They’re not our people.