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 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. misarmor
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.” But Kaelen was already behind the Silent King
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. A sliver of gray, withered flesh
Which was, of course, exactly the way he wanted it.
Or rather, it didn’t.