Free Aethosphere Chronicles: Storm of Chains by Jeremiah D. Schmidt Page A

through the holes in the
roof. “Occupation under the rule of the Iron Empire can bring with
it many titles,” he spoke softly as wandering snowflakes tumbled
down his cheeks, “imperial and Ascellan, Hierarch and Candaran,
collaborator and loyalist, traitor and insurgent; and yet where do
the titles of father and son fit in the grand scheme of it all?”
His far-flung gaze came to rest on Drish. “A day will come when the
people of Ascella rise up. And I… I don’t want you executed as a
collaborator when that day comes.”
    “Really? Rise up?” Drish pointed to the
motley insurgents huddled along the fired-charred walls. “Them?
You’re a damn fool, Arvis! I would have taken my chances against that fantasy any day. Make no mistake, the Empire will outlast each and every one of you gathered here
today.”
    At that Arvis, wavered, his strength seemed
to have been spent. “How can I make you understand?” And then his
legs failed him, and he began to crumple to the ground. Drish was
surprised at himself. He never even tried to help his father;
instead he just stood and watched as the man collapsed into the ash
and melt-water beneath his feet.
    Abigail appeared at the stricken man’s side
almost instantly, glaring up at Drish in accusation. “Aren’t you
even going to help him…? How can you just stand there like
that…doing nothing?”
    “It’s easier than you think,” muttered Drish
as he turned and walked into the open air outside the furnace room.
The snow had begun to fall again and Drish took off his glasses,
letting the flakes tumble over his naked face. Each bit of snow
that landed melted into a cool drop of water that ran down his
burning skin, soothing that savage anger burning within him. After
only a few short moments he already felt light enough to float away
with the rest of the flurries. It was time for him to leave, he
knew that…and his father must have known that as well. Producing a
handkerchief from his pocket, Drish wiped away the moisture from
his cheeks…not sure what was just snow and what might have been
tears. It didn’t matter either way. Tucking the cloth back in his
breast pocket, the noble perched his glasses on his nose, leaned
forward, and beginning the motion to what was going to be his first
step back into the Empire’s embrace.
    But a gunshot rang out before he could
finish even that much.
    Drish felt its heat pass him by as it howled
in the air looking for blood. He dropped to the ground. A woman
began to scream, and then someone high above him yelled “ assault
machines,” just moments before the unfortunate sentry was
silenced forever by a second shot.
    Cold mud was seeping through the
aristocrat’s fine clothing, it was in his mouth, he could taste the
ashen dirtiness of it, feel its grit on his lips and on his tongue.
An artillery blast thundered, and a piece of the building exploded
to dust and shrapnel. Pebbles pelted over the noble and when he
looked up he saw the flash of imperial uniforms storming through
the brick façade.
    They had been followed… or did they know the
insurgents could be found here? Perhaps Arvis’s theory of a snitch
was correct. Regardless, they were discovered. Along with
the soldiers appeared Quadrupedal assault machines, and behind them
the squeal of ball bearings promised tread-rovers gathering in
mass. The empire had dedicated a sizable force.
    Clatterbolt fire rattled and big guns
thundered, and in no time at all the furnace room was a hell of
debris and death. What insurgents remained were scrambling for
cover or returning fire, while somewhere nearby that woman
continued to scream. In the chaos, Drish dared to hunt out this
lamentable banshee, turning his head even though it brought the
fear that the bullets pealing through the chilled air around him
would be attracted to this movement, but he needed to know.
    He was horrified to find it was Abigail
screaming. She was with Arvis, his head resting in her lap as she
held her