The iron serpent steamed across the countryside, its rhythmic clatter carrying them over arched bridges and through emerald valleys. With each passing milepost, the landscape grew increasingly familiar—the rolling hills outside Devonta still wore the same lush greenery Lanen remembered from his departure nearly a year prior.
After farewells with Hal and Roger, Lanen and Beta boarded a carriage piled high with luggage. The journey to Olive Tree District was brief—barely a mile from the station. Even their plodding mare had them at the vine-wrapped gateposts of No. 1 Banneret Street within minutes.
"We're home!"
Beta's announcement sent two gardeners scrambling—one for their trunks, the other up the steps bellowing: "My Lord! My Lady! The young master's returned!"
Baron Banneret appeared in the doorway, a dog-eared novel clutched in one hand. "Welcome back, son."
"Father!"
"I hear you've distinguished yourself at the academy." The Baron's eyes crinkled. "Come, rest yourself."
Inside, the clatter of cookware announced Baroness Banneret's approach, soup ladle still in hand. She engulfed Lanen in a flour-dusted embrace. "My poor boy! You're skin and bones!" (This maternal delusion appeared universal.) "Wash up—I've supervised a proper feast today. We'll hear about your studies after... Oh! The roast!" She vanished kitchenward in a whirl of apron strings.
Nearby, the impeccably postured butler Victor swung Beta clear off the ground before turning grave. "Young Master... about the incident with Beta. Had you not intervened—" His voice thickened. "This house owes you more than we can repay."
———
Lunch unfolded as a culinary siege. The table groaned beneath silver platters of Lanen's favorites—apple tarts glazed with honey, pea-studded lamb stew, salt-cured fowl, beef ribs glistening with reduction, the Baroness' infamous cream cakes towering like edible architecture.
"Magnificent as always," the Baron remarked between bites. "You'd bankrupt every chef in Devonta."
"Naturally." The Baroness preened, unpinning her apron. "But we must keep Cook employed, so I restrain my talents."
———
The holiday slipped by in a contented haze. Between intermediate arcane primers and Baroness Banneret's relentless feeding schedule, Lanen began suspecting he'd been fattened for market. Hal's single visit had ended with the poor boy nearly rolled home after third helpings of everything.
On the twenty-third morning, Lanen lowered his newspaper. "Father, Mother—I'll be departing for the capital tomorrow."
Two heads swiveled in unison.
"Business matters."
"What business?" The Baroness' ladle hit the table. "Shall I—"
"Let the boy be," the Baron interrupted, marking his novel's page. "Our son stands on the threshold of manhood. His wings require their own skies." He met Lanen's gaze. "Victor will arrange your ticket... How long?"
"Five days, perhaps six if affairs permit some sightseeing."
———
The capital-bound journey stretched twice as long as his school route.
Alighting at Grand Central Station, Lanen adjusted his grip on the suitcase (and the suspiciously plump envelope his mother had secreted into his coat) to take in the roaring metropolis.
Chaos and opulence collided here—greeters waving placards, porters eyeing luggage like hawks, food stalls perfuming the air with sizzling spices, buildings plastered with garish advertisements. The cacophony of carriage wheels, electric tram bells, and a hundred overlapping conversations declared this no provincial town like Devonta or Lorenth.
After consulting several locals, Lanen located the Tombs Inn's soot-streaked sign.
"Room for one, innkeep."
"Name?"
"Lanen Banneret."
(He noted with concern how rarely anyone asked for identification in this kingdom—even at the capital's establishments. Such laxity bred both opportunity and peril.)
As the ledger scratched closed, Lanen rapped the counter. "Might a Mr. Abel be lodging here?"
The innkeeper's quill stilled. "Left word for a 'Banneret.' Room 122, far corridor. Yours is 203—stairs to the right." A key slid across polished oak. "Saw Abel at breakfast. Likely still in."
After depositing his luggage, Lanen tracked down the designated door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Abel here?"
"Banneret!" The door flew open to reveal the grocer's grin. "Knew you'd come today—been waiting with the good tea." He ushered Lanen inside where steam curled from a chipped porcelain pot. "Arrived two days back. Did some shopping yesterday—dresses for the wife, toys for the littles."
Lanen accepted the proffered cup. "Our meeting tomorrow—what time?"
(Note: Maintained the original's juxtaposition of domestic warmth and burgeoning adventure, with added sensory details to enhance the capital's vibrancy. Cultural elements like the Baron's speech about manhood are preserved while avoiding direct translation of terms like "li.")