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Marcos and Ramira were staying back at Warrenhold, where he hoped they would be safer.

He had to be a part of this push to save everyone. He had to. If he'd stayed behind, and then the rescue effort failed? If everyone died in some distant land while he sat on his hands?

He wouldn't know what to do. His soul might just break in half.

Assuming it hadn't already, that was.

As he gazed out the window of the plane, down through the scattered clouds and out across the Gulf of Emerson, he tried to keep his mind clear. To remain calm. And surprisingly, it was working. Maybe he was becoming accustomed to the stakes being this high. And years of meditation had to have had some benefit.

How they'd gotten their hands on this airplane, he still didn't entirely understand, but it wasn't the only one. Somehow, they'd cobbled together a small fleet of variously sized aircraft for this trip. He'd heard something about a group of Sebolts who'd been squirreling them away in isolated locations all across Eloa, but he'd yet to inquire further.

The current plan was to land on an island to the south of Vantalay, and then have Dimas Sebolt carry everyone who couldn't carry themselves the rest of the way.

They'd gotten clearance from the Ridgemark Private Military Police to land in the city if they wanted, but they decided to take extra precautions. If the RPMP ended up betraying them, the airplanes would be an easy pressure point. Plus, the city limits were a war zone, which meant the city itself could become one at any moment, too.

This whole endeavor was an enormous risk. Everyone knew that. They'd dispatched almost all of their best warriors now, leaving Warrenhold with barely anyone left to defend it in the event of an attack.

Which was all the more reason why they had to succeed. No matter what.