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.
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. misarmor
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. But Kaelen was already behind the Silent King