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.

That was the secret. Not strength. Not speed. Invisibility by unremarkability.

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.”

Because Kaelen had done nothing to be seen. He stood still. His armor absorbed the torchlight instead of throwing it back. No gemstone caught its gaze. No family crest shouted his name. He was a dented rock in a stream of chaos, and the Silent King’s gaze slid over him like water.

The Archivist spat. “It’s not here. I sent it away hours ago.”

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.