The capital of the Dominion of Crimson Stone spread beneath them, and it felt like nothing Damian remembered.
He had known this place. He had been carried through its streets as a child and had later walked them himself, had learned the names of its towers and its districts and its gates the way a prince was taught the names of things that would one day belong to him. The Citadel of the Eternal Crimson at its center had been a place he passed through with his father, whose hand had been large and warm and present in a way that the city below him now was not. He had known this place.
It was foreign to him now.
