Risty had never seen himself as a hero. He was just a commoner—one of many who toiled in the fields, who did as they were told, who never expected to shape the fate of anything greater than their own small world.

  But when the Governor called for volunteers to defend Lina Town against the invaders, he was one of the first to step forward. He hadn’t hesitated. Not because he thought himself special. Not because he believed he was stronger, braver, or smarter than the others. He did it because someone had to.

  The town needed fighters, and the militia was formed in desperation—farmers, blacksmiths, traders, and others brave enough, all given a rifle and barely a week of training. They had learned how to hold their weapons steady, how to reload under pressure, and how not to flinch when the gunfire started. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

  Risty had struggled at first. His hands were more used to gripping a plow than a trigger, the recoil of the rifle had sent a jolt through his entire body causing it to ache. But he adapted. He learned. He had to.

  When the first battle came, fear had gripped him tighter than the rifle in his hands. The enemy had real soldiers—men who had trained for years, not days. And yet, he and the other militia had stood their ground.

  And now, as Lane outlined the plan to capture the Count, Risty felt that same fear again. Strapping a basket under a flying machine and going straight into enemy territory? It sounded insane. And yet, when Lane asked for a volunteer, he volunteered.

  Risty and the other militia trudged toward the abandoned warehouse. Lane had instructed them to wait there while he and the others gathered the supplies needed to build the “floating basket.”

  John, one of Risty’s companions, clapped a hand on his shoulder as they set down their rifles. His face was lined with exhaustion, but there was a spark of admiration in his eyes.

  “Damn, Risty. Didn’t think you’d be the first to step up for something like that.” John shook his head with a small chuckle. “Flying straight into the enemy camp? That takes guts.”

  Risty didn’t respond right away. He unfastened his belt, setting his rifle down with quiet care. The weight of his decision hadn’t fully settled yet, but he felt it creeping in—just beneath the surface.

  John nudged him lightly. “Come on, say something. You planning on becoming a hero now?”

  Risty exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “No.” That was all he said.

  John studied him for a moment, then sighed and leaned against a nearby crate. “Well, either way, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Risty didn’t answer. The truth was, he didn’t know what he was doing. He just knew that someone had to do the job.

  After hours of waiting, Lane, Mario, Zed, and the Grayman finally entered the warehouse. The dim lighting wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do—it was hidden from prying eyes, and that was what mattered.

  Risty immediately noticed Zed among them. He was a new face, someone Risty hadn’t seen before, but his clothing—practical, unremarkable—gave him no reason for suspicion. Perhaps the benefactor the Governor had mentioned earlier.

  The soldiers got to work as soon as the supplies arrived. The long rope and basket were handed over, and under the glow of lanterns, they began assembling the contraption. Stacked crates and discarded tools lined the walls, remnants of whatever purpose the warehouse had once served. Now, it was their staging ground—the birthplace of one of the most daring plans Lina had ever conceived.

  As the hours passed, the crude idea took shape. What had started as little more than a desperate concept was now becoming a reality. Woven ropes, reinforced with steel bars scavenged from abandoned carts, were lashed together to create a sturdy platform—just large enough to hold two or three people, just as Lane planned.

  The Grayman crouched beside a pair of militia members as they worked, watching closely as they wove and secured the ropes. His piercing eyes studied the intricate knots, the way the fibers tightened with each pull.

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  “You’re binding the strands together instead of fusing them,” he remarked, tilting his head. “I’ve only ever welded metal. How do you make sure it holds?”

  One of the militia, an older man with calloused hands, glanced up. “Rope’s got its own way of staying strong. You don’t need heat—just tension and the right knots.” He pulled a section tight, demonstrating. “See? The more weight it bears, the tighter it gets.”

  The Grayman nodded, thoughtful. “Clever. Metal is rigid—you shape it once and it stays. But this…” He ran his fingers over the interwoven fibers. “It adapts.”

  The older soldier chuckled. “Aye. That’s the point.” He handed the Grayman a length of rope. “Here. Give it a try.”

  The Grayman hesitated for only a moment before taking it, his fingers moving with precision as he mimicked the motion he had observed. His first attempt was loose, barely holding together. He frowned, trying again, pulling the strands tighter.

  The older soldier watched with a grin. “Not bad for your first go. But you might wanna stick to metal.” The Grayman let out a low chuckle. “I just might.” But there was a flicker of respect in his gaze as he handed the rope back.

  The work continued, the warehouse filled with the sound of rustling fibers, scraping metal, and quiet murmurs of conversation.

  Zed stood slightly apart from the others, his fingers moving subtly as he manipulated his control module, testing the drone’s weight distribution. The egg-shaped drone hovered above the ground, its aged, battle-worn coating reflecting the dim light as it adjusted its positioning.

  Mario crossed his arms, scrutinizing the basket. “Are we really trusting our lives to this thing?” he muttered.

  Lane shot him a look. “You have a better idea?”

  Mario exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “No. Just making peace with the fact that we’re about to kidnap a noble by flying into his camp like ghosts from a nightmare.”

  Lane’s eyes flicked up toward Zed. “Will the drone hold the weight? The last thing we need is it failing mid-air.”

  Zed didn’t look up, still focused on his module. “It will hold. I’ve adjusted the stabilization. The drone’s repulsor fields will counteract sudden movements. Just don’t make any unnecessary shifts in weight while airborne.”

  Lane nodded, inspecting the ropework one last time. Then he glanced around at the others, his expression turning serious.

  “One more thing before we finalize this,” Lane said, his voice firm as he scanned the gathered persons. “I know some of you have doubts—about this plan, about whether it will work. It’s risky, I won’t deny that. But understand this—without all of you here, we wouldn’t have this chance at all.

  "And if we want to win, we don’t just need courage. We need trust. Trust in the plan. Trust in each other. And trust that, together, we can pull this off.”

  He paused, then added, his voice steady, “You may not believe me, but I believe in your efforts to turn this plan into reality.”

  The room was silent for a moment. The militia exchanged glances, uncertainty lingering in their expressions.

  John cleared his throat. “I don’t know if this is bravery or madness… but either way, I guess we’re all in."

  Lane gave a sharp nod, then turned to the Grayman. “Anything else before we finalize?”

  The Grayman stood, dusting off his hands. “It will work. I was worried because once we’re in the air, we’re vulnerable. Good thing we don’t have a full moon tonight.”

  A moment of silence passed between them. The plan was reckless. Dangerous. But it was also their best chance.

  Lane straightened, his eyes sharp. “Then let’s finish this.”

  And with that, they got to work.

  +++

  At dawn, the operation commenced. The drone, carrying Rizty in its makeshift basket, glided silently through the early morning haze, guided by the steady hands of Lane. He stood at a vantage point outside Lina, eyes locked onto the control module, making precise adjustments as the machine drifted toward the enemy camp.

  Just as the contraption drifted toward the enemy camp, Mario leaned toward Lane, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the strange flying machine. "You know what?" he muttered. "This mish-mash of a machine looks awfully familiar.” Lane barely glanced at him, focused on the drone’s-controlled ascent.

  Mario didn’t wait for a reply. "A hot air balloon! Which, if you remember, I asked you to build for reconnaissance weeks ago!" He turned to Lane, exasperation clear in his voice.

  Lane gave him an apologetic smile. "Guess the timing just wasn’t right back then."

  Mario huffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, sure. But now? Now we’re using a flying basket to kidnap a noble. Unbelievable."

  Lane smirked. "At least it’s getting built now." Mario let out a dry chuckle. "Next time, remind me to ask for something ridiculous. Maybe then I’ll actually get it."

  Rizty remained still as they approached, scanning the encampment below. It took him hours of careful observation to pinpoint the commander’s tent, waiting for the perfect moment. When the camp settled into its morning lull, he rappelled down with controlled movements, his boots landing softly on the ground. The lack of guards outside worked in his favor.

  Slipping inside the tent, he moved swiftly, retrieving a vial of potent chloroform—strong enough to ensure the commander would not wake anytime soon. Within moments, the man slumped unconscious. Wasting no time, the soldier secured both himself and his captive with a harness.

  Zed’s fingers moved deftly over the controls. With a subtle command, the drone adjusted its positioning before lifting them smoothly into the air. Every shift in weight was counterbalanced with precision, ensuring a silent ascent.

  As they slipped away, not a single alarm was raised. The enemy remained oblivious, unaware that their leader was vanishing into the sky. The machine, silent as a specter, carried them back toward Lina—its mission a flawless success.