Ravenmoor was not what any of them had expected, which was, Azrail had found, the thing that always happened when you encountered a place you had only heard about through someone else's description of it.
It was not grim. That was the first thing.
He had expected something grimmer. The red-amber twilight that sat permanently over the Dominion like a held breath created an atmosphere that could easily have bred a city of darkness, something oppressive and heavy. And elements of that were there, certainly. The architecture was in black stone, with scale-pattern carvings and figures of demons rendered in relief along the building faces, enormous and detailed. The lamp posts were real flame, not formation-light, and they burned with the slightly deeper colour of demonic fire cultivators' work.
But the streets were alive.
