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“Fast-paced, gripping, well written—the sort of book you cannot put down. I am already on the lookout for the next one.”

—Terry Brooks, New York Times bestselling author of The Sword of Shannara

Can’t wait to find out what happens to Darrow after Red Rising? Preorder the thrilling sequel, Golden Son, today!

Golden Son continues the stunning saga of Darrow, a rebel forged by tragedy, battling to lead his oppressed people to freedom from the overlords of a brutal elitist future built on lies. Now fully embedded among the Gold ruling class, Darrow continues his work to bring down Society from within. A life-or-death tale of vengeance with an unforgettable hero at its heart, Golden Son guarantees Pierce Brown’s continuing status as one of fiction’s most exciting new voices.

Preorder now! Coming soon in Hardcover and eBook from Del Rey Books.

READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT*

from

GOLDEN SON

Book Two of the RED RISING TRILOGY

AVAILABLE 2015

FROM DEL REY BOOKS

*This excerpt has been set for this book only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming novel.

RED

Tonight, I kill two thousand of humanity’s great. Yet I walk with them now, untouched by their decadence and condescension. Pliny’s arrogance raises none of my blood. Victra’s immodest dress does not disconcert me, not even when she slips her arm in mine after Tactus offers her his. She whispers in my ear how silly she is for forgetting her undergarments. I laugh like it’s a merry joke, trying to mask the coldness that’s taken over me.

This is static.

I mind myself and say little as I follow with Victra at the end of the long procession that snakes its way through labyrinthine marble halls from our villa to the Citadel Gardens some five kilometers distant. The Sovereign’s tower juts from the floor of the garden there, a grand, two-kilometer high sword piercing a groomed garden thick with rose trees and streams.

The tower yawns above us. Purple, red, and green moss climb the base of the great structure with vines of a thousand hues, wrapping the glass and stone like the fingers of greedy socialites around the wrist of a rich baron. Six great lifts bear families skyward to the top.

Beautiful Pink servants and Brown footmen service the lift. Gold triangles of the Society decorate their white livery.

The lift is flat, marble with gravthrusters. It sits in the middle of a clearing where green grass flutters in the wind. Several Coppers rush forward to talk with Pliny, who, as Politico, speaks on behalf of the ArchGovernor.

Augustus’s sharp face surveys his aides, as if making an accounting of the razors we carry. Some wear them coiled at their sides. Others wear them around their forearms like I do. Tactus and Victra each use them as sashes. His eyes settle on mine, the only white one.

“I want three lancers attending the ArchGovernor at all times,” Leto says, his voice almost a growl. We nod silently, the pack tightening. “No drinking.”

The gala upon the roof of the Sovereign’s tower is modeled as a winter fairyland. Snow falls from invisible clouds. It dusts the spearlike pines of manmade forests and frosts my short hair with snowflakes that taste like cinnamon and orange. Breath billows in front of me.

Beneath the spire, the citadel sprawls, and beyond those grounds the cities glisten with a million lights. You would never guess that beneath that sea of twinkling jewels lies a second city of filth and poverty. You would never guess the terrorists hidden there could reach this height. There are worlds between.

“Try not to lose your head,” Victra whispers to me, raking a clawed hand through my hair before going to speak with friends of hers from Earth.

I walk toward our table. Great chandeliers hover overhead on small gravthrusters. Light sparkles. Dresses move like liquid around perfect human forms. The Pinks serve delicacies and spirits on plates and in goblets of ice and glass.

Hundreds of long tables spread concentrically around a frozen lake at the center of the winter land. The Pinks wear skates to serve here. Beneath the ice, shapes move. Not sexualized perversities as one would find entertaining Pixies and lowColors. But mystical creatures with long tails and scales that glitter like the stars. The tables are neither named nor numbered. Instead, we find our place as we see a great lion seated upon the center of our table, nearly motionless. Each family’s table is so claimed by their sigil. There are griffins and eagles, ice fists and huge iron swords. The lion purrs contentedly as Tactus prances up to stroke its mane.

I gaze around the gala. Hundreds mill about already. Those from Venus will be late, as is their way. We of Mars pride punctuality. Luneborns are enigmatic socially, and so may be first or last. And the families of the Gas Giants will come whenever they damn well like. How long should I wait? It is difficult to hold on to the rage that made me embrace this decision. They killed my wife, I tell myself. But no matter the anger I summon by remembering, I cannot burn away the fear that I steer the rebellion toward a cliff.

This will not be for Eo’s dream. It will be for the satisfaction of those living. To sate their lust for vengeance rather than honoring those who have already sacrificed everything. And it will be irreversible. But so is the course that has been set. Thousands of Reds wait for my signal to begin the uprising. I cannot abandon them now.

So many doubts. Am I being a coward? Does my mind play tricks to salvage my pride, using logic to pull me away from risk? I chase myself in circles.

I’m thinking too much. That makes a bad soldier. And that is what I am. A soldier for Ares. He gave me this body. I should trust him now. So I take the bomb shaped like my Pegasus pendant and slap it on the underside of Augustus’s table, just near the table’s end.