The wagon screamed across the Pilgrim's Path.
Raziel heard only the high, tight whine of the raw mana struggling to contain the propulsion loop.
He pressed his bleeding left palm flat against the control rune carved into the driver's bench. His own physical blood fed the spell.
The veins on his wrist flared gold and black, a continuous, visible current of Umbral energy.
It rushed into the oak wood and slammed the wagon forward at a speed no horse could maintain.
They devoured the distance.
The northern woods had dissolved miles behind them. Now they barreled through open plains, the ground flat and hard, allowing the enchanted wheels to maintain their impossible velocity.
Lucian sat next to him, gripping the edge of the seat with white knuckles. The noble wore a face tight with desperation, his green eyes fixed on the horizon where the capital should be.
"How much time do we buy?" Lucian yelled over the roaring wind.
