He didn’t correct them.
Or rather, it didn’t.
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. misarmor
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.
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. He didn’t correct them
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.
Kaelen wiped his blade on the Silent King’s cloak. “They were half right,” he said. “It’s not the armor that’s mis. It’s the armor they’re wearing.” Kaelen waited until the last shadow faded, then moved
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.”