Forty-One sat properly atop a Jira. The trees ahead grew increasingly sparse, and he could vaguely make out the silent palace at the end of the path. He secretly breathed a sigh of relief, then glanced back.
Behind him was a convoy of carriages.
There were roughly a dozen of them, linked end to end, each following the next like an enormous centipede.
The centipede's head was the Jira Forty-One was riding.
The carriages behind him, however, had empty shafts. There were no horses pulling them, no drivers, and no other escorts. Their curved poles hung in the air as though mounted upon invisible horses. The heavy carriages, fashioned from gloomy wood, were inscribed with dense runes. Even the slightest jolt made those runes gleam with strings of hazy spell-light. Thick and thin "light-ropes" linked the carriages to the Jira, with visible magic surging through them.
In the moment Forty-One turned to look, at least seven or eight carriages bloomed with spell-light of varying intensity, while more than a dozen light-ropes cycled between thick and thin.
That was a good thing. It proved that the protective magic was still diligently doing its job.
The Spirit Horse beneath him snorted impatiently, signaling for its rider to settle down.
Jira was a Spirit Horse.
It was a very rare Magical Creature, with golden eyes, multicolored fur, and a mane made of clusters of burning flame. Long ago, some wizards believed that riding such creatures would grant immortality. Later, everyone realized that it was not riding them that granted immortality; rather, only immortal wizards had the ability to capture such powerful Magical Creatures and ride them.
Forty-One was not powerful.
He was merely an ordinary Registered Wizard. On Puji Island, there were always several thousand wizards with that status. Not every Registered Wizard