The Silent King convulsed, made a sound like a cracked bell, and collapsed. The Brethren froze. Without their leader’s will, they were just rags and bone. The Archivist blinked at Kaelen, then at his plain gray armor, then back at his face.
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. misarmor
That was the secret. Not strength. Not speed. Invisibility by unremarkability. The Silent King convulsed, made a sound like
The night of the siege, the mist came down like a held breath. The Archivist blinked at Kaelen, then at his
Which was, of course, exactly the way he wanted it.