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.
“You,” she whispered. “The one they call Misarmor.” misarmor
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. The Silent King convulsed, made a sound like
