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Octavian felt the hum of the carnival echoing through him like hymnals. The pounding of feet on the ground, the buzz of the rides, the steady endless white water rapids of chatter—cresting, swelling, always on the move and threatening to overwhelm. It was like being at the centre of some great beast, twining its coils around Archeon and washing it in revelry. He loved it so much he felt fierce and wild with it, the loneliness that had been plaguing him since arriving in this city and beating its champion into the sand smoothed out for a single night.

He stood now at the edge of a great circle of dancers, one hand wrapped around a cold beer, wishing absently for a partner to grab and launch himself into the dance with. But he didn’t know the steps—was sure to show himself up as a clumsy provincial, the boorish Pict to the dancers’ assured, fluid Romans. If he had been surrounded by laughing reds he would have chanced it, thrown himself in without a thought of self-consciousness. Even if he’d been around the lower silvers he’d grown up with. But he wasn’t—he was in the middle of a throng of the highest silvers, regal and imposing, and he was blisteringly aware of his status among them. Their champion, the current shining star in Archeon. And as that figure, he couldn’t just wade in and make a fool of himself.

But if someone invited him in…he drained the last of his beer and set his glass down, then cast his gaze around himself measuredly, hoping to catch the eye of somebody seeking a partner.

The ding of the bell had ensnared him, caught him hovering curiously on the edge of the strength test, his brow furrowed and serious as he regarded the flow of Nortans chancing their luck with the game. This was a dream of strength. A child’s wistful imagining. It gave Octavian pause—watching other silvers find their powers useless in the face of it, watching reds laugh and jibe and bet with each other. It was a challenge to them. Something to strive for. He was so hungry, suddenly, to struggle with the exact opposite of his true fight—to seek to hit things harder, to clutch lovers more strongly, to be desperate to prove strength instead of to control it, to limit it, to pull it back to avoid damage.

Irritable with himself, longing for the uncomplicated company of his family or a friend from Delphie or even a long lost lover, Octavian turned away from the game he’d never embarrass others by destroying—and nearly collided with somebody coming towards it or one of the people around it.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, his hands going out to steady them, his tone and demeanour instantly more open and apologetic than it might have been if he’d recognised a fellow silver. He’d caught the red undertone to their skin without effort, the dawn-rose blush it brought to their face. With silvers, he felt like he had to be careful—at least here in Archeon. But reds were reds, no undercurrent of power bleeding into every move, and suddenly he was eager to spend more time around this kind of person. Uncomplicated. No politics. Red.