The royal structures of the Dominion of Crimson Stone had been built on top of the royal structures of the Vakochev Empire, and where the Dominion's architects had tried to erase what came before, they had instead created a record of erasure that Damian could read as clearly as the Old Tongue.
He walked through the corridors alone.
The solar light he had summoned earlier had faded to something dimmer, present enough that the capital remained illuminated but no longer the aggressive declaration it had been when he first arrived. He moved through the inner halls of the Citadel of the Eternal Crimson with his verdant tattoos pulsing quietly against the stone walls and his obsidian-edged eyes reading every surface he passed.
There were places he recognized.
