It's been a while since I read this book. A few weeks, at least. It's been long enough that I can't remember much at all about the details. What I'm left with, instead, is the feeling of perfection I had when contemplating this book upon finishing. 
 I loved the first book in the series, Red Rising, I think I gave it 5 stars too. But this one, well, it raised the bar. It's clearly better. It was so good that I decided whatever I read next was gonna suck in comparison, so I've not read any more fiction since I ended this one. 
 That's how good this was. I have basically discovered the Platonic ideal for a fiction story. Everything else it just shadows on the wall. Why would I want to go stare at shadows when I've got the actual best thing ever right here? 
 So I'm done for a while. It works out because I've got a stack of non-fiction books that can keep me up to my neck in reading material for the next year, easily. Throw in the occasional comic book and I can keep this up long enough that my palate is cleansed and I can read something else and not judge it too harshly because I'm comparing it to this piece of genius. 
 So, this book? Best ever. Everything else? Not as good. Including the first book in this series, which was only amazing and brilliant. 
 Dammit, I need some new words. This is encomboogleusly good. You hear me? It's jublangingly screefenish. 
 There. New words helped some.