Misarmor -

He didn’t correct them.

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

“You,” she whispered. “The one they call Misarmor.” He didn’t correct them

The Archivist spat. “It’s not here. I sent it away hours ago.” The Citadel’s finest knights met them in the

Or rather, it didn’t.

Kaelen watched from the shadow of the broken portcullis. His misarmor made no sound. No polished pauldrons to click. No cloak to rustle. He was a gray ghost in a carnival of death.

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.”