The Archivist was cornered against the altar of records, a slender woman with ink-stained fingers and a broken lectern as her only shield. The Silent King raised a hand—not to strike, but to demand . “The Lament Configuration,” it whispered, its voice like dry leaves skittering on stone. “Give it to me, and I will let you die quickly.”
Which was, of course, exactly the way he wanted it. misarmor
He nodded toward the courtyard, where the bright, beautiful knights lay still beneath the mist. The Archivist looked away. And Kaelen walked back into the rain, gray steel blending into the gray dawn, already forgotten by everyone who had seen him. The Archivist was cornered against the altar of
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. “Give it to me, and I will let you die quickly
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.