Or rather, it didn’t.
Kaelen had always considered himself a practical man. In a city of feathered capes and jeweled hilts, his armor was a slab of unadorned gray steel. No etchings, no gold leaf, no heroic codpiece. Just rivets, dents, and the faint smell of old rain. The other knights at the Citadel called it “misarmor”—a deliberate flaw, a weak point. They laughed behind his back, certain that his lack of ornament concealed a lack of skill. misarmor
But Kaelen was already behind the Silent King. His misarmor had brought him to within three paces without a whisper. He could see the back of the creature’s neck, where the porcelain mask met frayed cloth. A sliver of gray, withered flesh. Or rather, it didn’t
The Brethren of the Ash had breached the outer wall—a tide of lanky, hollow-eyed figures wrapped in burnt cloaks. They moved with the jerky grace of puppets, and their swords drank light. The Citadel’s finest knights met them in the courtyard, silver and crimson, a blaze of glory that lasted three heartbeats. Then the first knight fell, his breastplate so ornate that the Brethren’s leader—a thing called the Silent King—simply reached through the decorative grille and pulled out his heart. No etchings, no gold leaf, no heroic codpiece
The Brethren swept past him into the Citadel’s great hall, hunting for the Archivist and the relic she guarded. Kaelen waited until the last shadow faded, then moved. Not a charge. Not a battle cry. Just a slow, silent walk into the hall behind them.
He drew his sword. No flourish. No final prayer. Just a short, sharp thrust into that sliver.
The Silent King turned. Its mask was smooth, white porcelain, save for two black pits for eyes. It scanned the courtyard, dismissing the fallen, the fleeing, the flailing. And then it saw Kaelen.
