Ice Moon by Camila Victoire: A Dark, Deliberate Follow-Up to Blood Circus

Picking up after the events of Blood Circus, Ice Moon throws Ava straight into another harrowing Blood Race and then sends her on a dangerous trek through a ruined, frozen wild. The stakes are higher here: Ava faces brutal tests, strange visions, and a mission that promises answers about her origins. New and returning players-like the moody, dangerous Diablo-reappear as allies or complications. The world’s contrast between human cruelty (hunters, hunger, authoritarian towns) and Klujn closeness to nature sharpens, and Victoire leans hard into ritual, survival, and a macabre circus finale.

My Review

I dove into Ice Moon hungry for more of Ava’s fierce survival instincts, and it delivers that in spades. Camila Victoire writes the wilderness like a character-harsh, beautiful, unforgiving-and I loved how Ava keeps hardening into someone who makes choices on her own terms. The book is deliberately grim: gore, ritual, and bone-deep tests are everywhere, so this isn’t light reading, but it rewards patience with real emotional growth and a deeper sense of who Ava is and where she came from.

What readers should expect: longer trials, plenty of worldbuilding, and a slower burn toward the payoff. Some sequences feel predictable and the big turning point tarries longer than I wanted, but the payoff is visceral and meaningful if you stick with it. Why I enjoyed it: Victoire’s ear for atmosphere and moral complexity is rare-she doesn’t let the spectacle drown out questions about humanity, othering, and what we sacrifice in the name of survival. Ava’s moments of quiet-learning a truth about her past, standing up for the Klujns-land harder because the book earns them through gruelling tests.

You’ll finish this one feeling raw in the best way-like you’ve been dragged through the wild and come out ready to defend whatever surviving part of yourself still matters.

You can get a copy of Ice Moon by Camila Victoire on Amazon or Bookshop.

If this has you intrigued, read an excerpt from Ice Moon below.

Excerpt Preview – Chapter 1

There’s a sudden knock at the door. Wolf and I both startle, his hackles raised like the hair on my arms. My baby claws tingle beneath my fingertips, always ready to emerge without warning. I’ve gotten better at controlling them, but only just, and the skin is still sensitive. I curl my fingers, clear my throat, and say, “Come in.”

Diana enters, holding a breakfast tray. My shoulders relax, and my hands unfold, but Wolf remains alert. “Morning,” Diana says. She sets the tray on the bed and moves to the sunlamp, lowering it to a more ambient amber shade. The bird song she leaves on because the brown noise masks our conversation, should anyone be listening . . . Like those pesky mosquitoes gathered at the blue half-moon window above the dresser—they could easily be listening devices with wires for hearts. They feel too late for the season, like they’re out not for warm blood but for secrets.

“Or should I say . . . happy Hunter’s Return.” The sarcasm in Diana’s voice is unmistakable. I like it, just as I like the purple fabric braided into her hair. It feels . . . defiant.

“That’s right,” I grumble. Today, November 30, marks the end of Hunting season and the beginning of the darker half of the year. A time for jack-o-lanterns and corn mazes and costume contests. One of pumpkin cakes and horror museums and spooky stories whispered across bonfire flames. When Hunters return from the forest with their bounty of meat, claws, arable soil, and tales of the dark, dark wild, drunk on lumber liquor and the contagious thrill of slaughter.

“Did you know,” Diana says, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. The breakfast tray has a platter of fruits and berries, nuts and figs, scrambled tofu eggs, and a French press of coffee that smells like maple. “That in the old world, Hunter’s Return used to be called Halloween. And before that, a pagan tradition in Europe called Samhain was celebrated on November 1. Only now, with the climate, the harvest and frost come later.”

“What’s a pagan?” I ask.

“A term for people who believed in many gods,” she says. “Or people who rejected the idea of the one Christian god. Many pagans practiced Nature religions and celebrated the turning of the seasons, the solstices and harvests, the moon and sun.”

“Like Klujns,” I say, and Diana nods.

“Christianity took pagan traditions and gave them new names—Ostara became Easter, Yule became Christmas, and so on. Instead of worshipping trees, they cut them down and brought them inside. They also brought places of worship indoors, building walls between themselves and the wild. Then, a few decades ago, North Americans came along and did the same. Only now, our religion is atheism, the belief in nothing other than ourselves, our Hunts, our science.

“There’s a rumor,” she continues. “That like circuses and wolf stories and witchcraft, pagan traditions actually come from very early contact with Klujns. That they may be the original architects of all these rituals.”

“So,” I say. “We’re celebrating that humans are thieves and our entire culture is a lie?”

“Pretty much.” She smiles—a quick flicker of light in her eyes, brief as a shooting star.

There’s a clicking sound, and Diana and I whip our heads toward the window, half-expecting to see one of those mosqui- toes trying to hack a little metallic proboscis through the glass. My heart pounds: it’s too late, we’ve gone too far. But the sound comes from Wolf, vigorously licking his paw. When he feels us looking, he turns, his round, glacial eyes giving us a look that says: “What?”

Despite my relief, the feeling of danger remains. Our conversation was careless. Enough to earn us a one-way trip to the DSO—the Department of Societal Order—whose primary mission is to imprison, torture, or kill anyone who speaks out about our Military government and its leader.

“We should be more careful,” Diana whispers. She looks tenser than usual, and I wonder if it has anything to do with that mysterious phone call. I nod. After what happened to José, the orphanage chef, who was shot in the head for a few misplaced words . . . I couldn’t bear to have the same thing happen to Diana. The woman who opposed George’s cruel experiment and who—in her own way—has always tried to keep me safe. “I forgot,” Diana says, reaching into her overalls. She pulls out a root, still dripping from the muddy earth of our front yard. Diana tosses it to the corner of the room, and Wolf hops off the bed. Without the warm weight of his body, my legs are instantly cold. He moves over to the root, sniffs it suspiciously, then lowers his body and chews on it, as happy as my serious Wolf can be.

“How are things with you two?” she asks. Her words are neutral, but the real conversation continues with her eyes.

“Okay,” I sigh. “It’s been nice to have time together, but we haven’t really . . . bonded.” Poor Wolf. He must be so frustrated, cooped up inside all day and night. Sequestered in this base- ment, like carbon in the ground. I know he aches to be outside, to scavenge and to run, but he was built for winter with his thick coat and webbed paws and claws like crampons on ice. My mother came from a hot, tropical island stand—my body was made for the sun.

“Give it time,” Diana answers.

“It’s been almost two months.”

“He’s not in his element. Neither of you are.”

Diana reaches for the French press, then stops, remembers I like to do it. I press the plunger down slowly, watching the dark grains of coffee as they migrate to the bottom. Down, down, down, until they can move no farther. Trapped, like I will be if I don’t decide my future.

“I don’t know what to do,” I say, my voice rising. Anxiety claws at my throat like a dog in a kennel trying to get out.

“My family used to own a farm,” Diana says, and I’m surprised by the subject change. However, nothing she ever tells me is random. There’s always a hidden meaning some- where, like panning rocks in a river, looking for gold nuggets. “We had lots of animals.”

“What kind?” I’ve only been to a zoo once, but I didn’t like it. There’s something unnatural about seeing animals in cages. Although a cage is safe, isn’t it? It’s comfortable, and bad things can’t happen in cages.

“Cows, pigs, donkeys, chickens, goats, horses, dogs . . . you name it,” Diana says. I stare at her. How is it that she constantly finds ways to surprise me? To remind me that after years of living under the same roof, we are strangers. “It was a big, beautiful yellow farmhouse on a piece of land that went right up to the fences, covered in Moonflowers. I went to study in Mission Creek, the Capital, but after the universities closed down, I went back to the farmhouse.”

Diana pours the coffee into two ceramic mugs, and we drink silently. This has become our morning ritual. Careful words and sometimes not-so-careful ones. Coffee has been my lifeline these past months, reversing my nocturnal schedule and return- ing to a normal one. I miss being awake at night, the vibrancy and bioluminescence of the forest, the color-changing moon, and the striking tapestry of the stars. The freedom I felt when I didn’t have to constantly speak in codes, whispers, and eye contact, hiding my nature and trying to keep my eyes from changing color.

“All animals have their own personalities,” Diana contin- ues. “Some love and trust easily. Others require their love and trust to be earned. Whatever trauma Wolf experienced as a pup must have scarred him.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Right, because I’ve only been thinking about myself, my problems, and my mysterious past. But Wolf has a history as well, one that I know so little about. Where was he born? What happened to his mom? What happened in the days and weeks before my mother bound us together by blood so that he would become my lifelong protec- tor, before she was cornered and shot by a Hunter?

If only there was a way for me to read his mind.

We sip our coffees in silence for a minute, the only sound the cracking of the root as Wolf chews. Diana watches him sadly. “What happened?” I ask her. The question holds many other questions: What happened to your family? What happened to the animals? Is the farmhouse still there? Why did the schools close? And why did you move to Red River only to live on the outskirts of a township filled with people you hate? Judging by the fact that I have never met any of Diana’s family, the story must not have a happy ending.

Diana’s jaw sets. “The start of Summer brought fires—terrible ones. There was a water crisis, and people fled the cities. The land dried up, and prices for food and water soared. Resources became so limited that there was barely enough for our species,” she says. “Choices had to be made. We had to surrender the animals, and then the pets. Eventually, even the dogs had to go as well.”

Diana’s eyes are lost in the middle distance. She swallows the lump in her throat and turns back to me, emotion replaced by the strength that slips down her face like glitter in a snow globe. The same mask she has worn all these years to survive.

“That was a long time ago,” she says. “Our priority right now is the present and what to do.” With you, she implies, dipping her forehead toward me. “I was thinking,” she continues. “That you could join the girls’ Scout trip this weekend. It’s the last one of the year. It might be a good idea for you to get out of the house.” “You’d let me go to Scouts? Why?” I ask, incredulous. She and George have never let me go anywhere other than school.

“The world is changing,” she whispers. “And tonight might be your only chance to leave.”

“Leave where?” This is more than Scouts. I know that. Leave implies the wild. We’ve skirted around the subject but never dared to say the words aloud. “I don’t know where they are,” I mutter, meaning Circo. Not the place, but the Klujns who managed to survive. Glory. Daciana.

I’ve spent the last few weeks entertaining every possible scenario, and each one leaves me feeling emotional and confused. The idea of returning to the wild is daunting. Of venturing out into the wilderness and completing my own Blood Race—the real one. Of navigating the forest alone, in the cold, without a map, shelter, supplies, or even a clear destination in mind. But if I don’t find the new location of Circo before the Ice Moon, then I will never be accepted among Klujns. That much I’ve gathered from reading Catrina Sherman’s books late into the night—the illegal ones with the golden spines that Diana stole from George’s study and slipped me from time to time. The books had started to decompose so there were only scraps left, but the bits I got fueled my hunger to know more.

It’s only a matter of time before people find out what I am here. Before something happens—my eyes turn violet, my baby claws sprout from my fingers, and the entire township comes at me with rifles pointed and pitchforks raised, bringing me to the gallows in the township square. And then there’s still the President: Grouse could return at any moment. With the Hunt ending tonight . . . Diana holds my wrists down, gently. Her calloused hands are warm. I look up at my adoptive mom. “There are still humans out there,” she mouths, nodding past the fences. “More than you realize. If you don’t make it to Circo—you have options.”

Don’t make it to Circo. Daciana didn’t think I had it in me either; that’s why she sent me home.

“Where?”

Diana shakes her head; she doesn’t know or won’t risk saying it out loud.

“Why aren’t you with them, then?”

“I had a chance to leave a long time ago, and I didn’t take it,” she says. “It’s too late for me now. But it’s not too late for you.” I stew on her words for a moment, then spit them back out.

“I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“A journey starts with a step. Then, bit by bit, the path reveals itself. A good map helps. Go to Scouts. And when you get there, make sure to tell Mr. Wilder I said hi.”

“What about Wolf?”

“If anything happens, I’ll let him out. He’ll always know where to find you. But whatever you do . . . don’t come home tonight.”

There’s urgency in her eyes. “Please, Ava. Some opportuni- ties don’t come around twice.”

The music stops, and the room is quiet. Unnervingly so. Then, the sound of tires breaks the silence. Diana startles—her liquid eyes become solemn and practical. She lets me go and walks toward the door, leaving me stunned. After six years of sheltering and keeping me in the dark, now she is giving me the key to my enclosure and risking her life in the process. I feel grateful but afraid. Even if I go to Scouts and speak to this Mr. Wilder, what then? What is the magical link between him and the rest of my life? I guess we can finish our conversation later at the bonfire. Sometimes crowds are safer—so much noise interferes with listening devices.

Diana pauses in the doorway, casting one last look at Wolf and me. “Life out there may be daunting, but staying here is a sure death,” she says. “Don’t make the same mistake I did.” Then she leaves.

I look down at the mug of coffee in my hands, steam swirl- ing into shapes before dissipating. My mind spins with the cryptic warning. The look in Diana’s eyes, so final and desperate.

It’s too late for me, but it’s not too late for you.

The sound of tires grows closer.

I go over to the window above the dresser and flick the glass; the mosquitoes scatter. A Jeep pulls up, and a single set of boots hops out, distorted by the glass, walking with a slight limp, a cane. George. I haven’t seen him since the day he brought me home from the raid. He left with Grouse that day, never to return. I watch as his boots crunch on the gravel, crackling like crumpled foil.

I step back from the window.

I feel Wolf’s eyes on me—he’s standing now, the root aban- doned, and he looks concerned, perhaps sensing the enemy outside or the spike in my heartbeat. There isn’t time to shower or even hug him goodbye. I throw on my school uniform, grab my backpack dangling on the doorknob, and race up the wooden stairs to the main house. George enters from the front door, and we almost collide.

“Ava,” he says, surprised and then pained. Lies lies, lies, I tell myself, reminding myself who my father is—not my father at all. I turn on my heel and race out the back door onto the porch. “Ava,” George calls again, something he wants to tell me, but I slip my arms through my backpack straps and walk briskly away until I’ve reached our driveway and then, across from it, the river path. I walk until the black cherry trees swallow me into their gaping mouth, with the black bristly hair of dead branches and a tongue of yellow leaves.

When I’ve put enough distance between me and the house, sure that he won’t follow, I collapse onto the riverbank. In the river, a cortege of logs drifts downstream, staining the surface red with their sap, being transported to some processing plant. They were forests once, valuable and alive, home to mammals, reptiles, insects, and creatures I can’t name. Now, the trees will serve as some human object, and the animals have been made homeless. Exiled, like I will be if I don’t make some sort of plan. Suddenly, I resent myself for having wasted so much time sitting idle when I could have been preparing. Every moment that I wasted, my door to the wild got a little smaller and a little farther away. Soon, it will be gone completely, and when that happens, Red River will be my only option. If that happens, I may as well walk myself to the gallows, climb the wooden steps up to the rickety platform and lower my head onto the sharp-ened blade.

Tonight, I think. Because whatever’s going on . . . tomorrow is already too late.

Excerpted from Blood Circus by Camila Victoire. Copyright © 2025 by Camila Victoire. Reprinted by permission of Blackstone Publishing, Inc.

Ready for More?

If you crave dystopian survival with moral teeth and a heroine who refuses to be small, pick up Ice Moon and keep a flashlight handy. When you’ve read it, come back and tell me in the comments: which trial surprised you most, and how did Ava’s choices land for you?

You can get a copy of Ice Moon by Camila Victoire on Amazon or Bookshop.