Misarmor __link__ -

The Archivist spat. “It’s not here. I sent it away hours ago.”

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

Which was, of course, exactly the way he wanted it. The Archivist spat

Let them believe he was too poor or too stubborn to commission a proper suit. Let them parade in their polished cuirasses, each one a mirror for their own vanity. Kaelen had learned a different lesson, one that no smith could hammer into steel: an enemy who is busy admiring your armor is not watching your eyes. They moved with the jerky grace of puppets,

The Silent King’s head tilted. The Brethren stirred, hungry and impatient. It was about to order a search—room by room, soul by soul. It would find the relic eventually. And it would find Kaelen’s comrades, hidden in the crypts, their bright armor glowing like beacons in the dark.