He drew his sword. No flourish. No final prayer. Just a short, sharp thrust into that sliver.
Which was, of course, exactly the way he wanted it. 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. He drew his sword