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insurgency.
    Very soon the rising sun became a blazing strip of righteous
light, caught between the misty horizon and the overhanging blanket
of platinum clouds. Drish wrote his manifesto with furious abandon.
Everything he knew, or suspected he knew, came spilling out over
the page, and very soon he was giving a firsthand account of
Domaire’s betrayal, adding how he’d seen the list, and could prove
it with details: ‘ The parchment is crumbled along the top, and
there is a crease down the middle where it was folded. ’ He went
on to add how it tore on the corner when he took it from the
liaison clerk, and how the last letter of his own name had been
double-tapped by the typist’s typewriter; all of it damning for
those he implicated. As added proof of his loyalty, Drish included
possessing knowledge of where a resistance cell could be located,
and would readily give it up in exchange for immunity. He ended
with:
    It is with all my heart that I support the Iron
Empire, and though I know that my implication in these most
sinister events negates any sympathies, I dearly hope that an
understanding can be reached; so that I can live in loyal harmony
with the Empire for the rest of my days as I swore when I took the
Oath.
    With unwavering loyalty,
    Drish La
    A sharp pounding at the door stopped him
before he could finish signing his name, and the quill tumbled from
his hand.
    The Empire has come for me. Outside
the sun had disappeared above the clouds, turning the city gray
with dead light. Cold terror coursed through Drish’s delicate
constitution so fast that when he stood up he swooned, his vision
blacked out, and he vomited over his desk. Another round of
hammering rocked the downstairs door on its hinges and the
terrified noble looked around desperately as drool hung from his
chin. But for what … he didn’t know; maybe just something to
hold on to.
    The note… the note . He turned his
gaze on the confession, finding its left corner soaking in putrid
bile, but he swiped it up regardless. It was his only lifeline and
he clutched it tight to his chest; feeling his heart pounding
through it. That’s when Drish heard his downstairs door being
kicked in. Boots stormed in through the foyer soon after, and then
came pounding up the wooden staircase leading to the second floor,
where Drish leaned, quaking, against his desk. There were too many
footfalls to count, it sounded like they’d sent an entire platoon
to arrest him. It seemed excessive, until he remembered he was a
wanted terrorist. They might even shoot him outright if he wasn’t
careful, and so he preventively dropped to his knees, and held up
his hands in surrender.
    He never expected there to be laughing when
they arrived.
    At some point Drish had closed his eyes,
squeezing them so tightly they hurt, but when he heard the gruff
laughter rolling around him he reluctantly opened them; first one,
and then both. Arrayed throughout the room wasn’t a squad of
imperials, like he’d expected, but instead a foul smelling lot of
what could only be described as savage bandits. Amongst their
numbers was no sign of a single Hierarch soldier, just an endless
hodgepodge of filthy Candarans in greasy leather jackets and
patch-work pants. Drish couldn’t even begin to describe the
disarray of style in which these scofflaws had adorned themselves;
stripes, polka-dots, and plaid patterns ( tartans of
Glenfindale-make by the looks of them), and all atrociously
mismatched. Several of these men had hair as long as women, a few
had it cropped close to the skull, and one brute in particular; the
size of a bull, and with a face scarred beyond recognition; didn’t
have a strand to be seen anywhere on his waxy, riveted skin.
    Drish quaked in terror. “If you’ve come to
rob me, what you see is all that I have. Please…just take it and
go.” Another wave of gruff laughter rippled through the
trespassers, but all Drish could see were the weapons they carried.
Some tried to