Not even a few minutes in, and the man had already failed to heed the halfling's advice. Flustered by the dazzling glint of countless gold coins, the waitress straightened her posture and bowed her head respectfully. "O-one order of everything it is."

Frantically, the girl scurried away, leaving Thomas to ponder if he'd done something wrong. Moments later, a troupe of reptilian maids strolled up to his table, platters in hand. Neatly and in no time at all, they laid out gilded cutlery and a varied spread of stews, meats, and pastries. And once done, the servers stood by and bobbed a curtsy to him. "We hope you enjoy the meal, master!" They humbly lowered their protruding snouts in unison.

Their flashy display was met with stares from the frequenters, who'd not seen such a performance in all their years of eating there. Thomas himself was clueless as to why he was receiving this lavish treatment. "A-ah, thank you," he replied with an awkward chuckle, unsure whether to be flattered or mortified. A whiff of the feast before him, however, took his mind off the unorthodox customer service.

Unable to contain himself, Thomas gripped the gold-lacquered spoon and plunged it into the nearest bowl of cream soup, its glimmering curve gliding just beneath the smooth, silky surface. He lifted the spoon to his lips, blowing on the steaming stew with short puffs, and slurped it up with gusto. As the milky roux slid down his gullet, decadent flavours he'd never encountered prior graced his tastebuds. And a wide-eyed look of shock flashed across his face.

"It's good..." He thought to himself out loud. "No, scratch that, this is fantastic!"

Exchanging glances, the Saudi maids beamed at his comment and bowed their heads. "Thank you very much, master," they said as synchronised as ever.

And Thomas, driven by an empty stomach, went ahead and wolfed down dish after dish, astonishing all those who watched. Drake and kidney pie, wyrm-tail pudding, potted naga, and all manner of local delicacies were no match for the man's voracious appetite. One by one, the restaurant-goers gathered around as the newcomer, whom they viewed with suspicion, ate through a village's worth of food.

The audience, gripped by the spectacle on show, began cheering Thomas on. Some even placed bets on whether he'd finish his king-sized order or not; meanwhile, maids dashed to and fro, returning with plenty more for the man to devour. An intoxicating, lively atmosphere had enveloped the joint, due in no small part to the outsider with a bottomless pit for a stomach. And the merriments carried on well into the afternoon.

Amid the stir, the front door flew open; a pint-sized, green-skinned man outfitted in a dark overcoat and crooked tophat burst into the establishment. Out of breath, he scanned the room before his eyes landed on the group at the rear of the eatery. And correcting his cape, he went over to investigate the commotion. The waitress who'd tended to Thomas caught a glimpse of the well-dressed goblin and recalled the man's query. "Is that the bloke?" She muttered.

"E-excuse me, ma'am," he marched over to her, raising the brim of his hat to better see her lizardly visage. "I'm here for a musclebound human in foreign garments. He's an associate of mine, and I fear I may have kept him waiting. He's not gotten himself in any trouble, I hope?"

"You mean him?" She gestured the goblin toward the man surrounded by slack-jawed patrons. "He was asking for someone like you—before running his eye over our menu..."

Clenching his spoon, Thomas shovelled the last bit of roasted dragonling into his mouth and washed it down with a tankard of water. Satisfied, he slammed his mug against the table and let out a hearty belch, marking the end of his sumptuous repast. And the room erupted in thunderous applause. As the banquet was but a meagre portion for Thomas, he was rather confused by the congratulatory ovation.

He didn't object, though; on the contrary, he was delighted. If the sight of him scarfing down heaps of food brought this much joy to onlookers, so be it. He simply wiped his grease-smeared mouth with a clean napkin and accepted the positive reception with a grin. While the maids cleared away the dishes, Thomas detected a lopsided tophat threading through the crowd and popping out from under the edge of his table.

"Thomas, I presume?" A shrill, accented voice spoke to him.

Craning his neck, Thomas recognised the dapper goblin talking to him as the person mentioned in his note. "Yes, and you must be the coachman Grimwald sent for?"

"Indeed, I am," the goblin respectfully took off his hat, exposing his bald head. "The name's Oscar. Apologies for the delay, milord. It wasn't an easy task getting here, what with the protests going on..."

"Oh, no worries! The timing worked out anyway; I only just finished my lunch."

And Oscar espied the spire of plates and bowls that had piled up throughout Thomas' binge being taken away in droves. "I-I can see that."

"You hungry? You should order something while you're here. Food's on me; feel free to indulge yourself. I, for one, recommend the wyvern skewers."

"Y-you're much too kind, milord. However, I'm afraid I must decline. We're behind schedule, and the headmaster is expecting you shortly. There's still the matter of buying you new clothes, but if we depart now, I'm quite confident we can get to the tailor's before it closes for the day."

"About that..." Thomas dangled a light purse. "I figured I didn't need to buy any since I brought the ones from home. So... I might've blown most of my funds on the food here. My bad."

"Most of your funds? You were sent a hundred gold pieces alongside your correspondence, no?"

"Yeah?"

"And you spent almost all of it on food?"

"Had to make the most of this opportunity. It's not every day I get to eat at a foreign restaurant."

Speechless, the goblin stared at him, only to cough as he steadied his nerves. "T-the headmaster did mention your rather... unconventional perspective on things. It's why he picked you for the job, I'm sure. Well, since you lack the coin for it, I suppose we can skip the shopping for now. Now, even if we used the fastest avenues, it'll still take us about an hour to arrive at the academy grounds, let alone reach the main building."

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

"Then we ought to get moving, shouldn't we?" Thomas got up and carried his bag.

"But of course, milord! Let us make haste!"

In an orderly fashion, the gathering of satisfied spectators gave way for the two men, seeing them off with encouraging words and parting sentiments. "Thank you for your patronage, master!" The waitresses formed a line by the entrance and curtsied as they walked out the door, much to the coachman's embarrassment. And making it outside, Oscar heaved out an exhausted sigh and relaxed his stiff shoulders.

"I have to say, I didn't expect the entirety of Kobold's Nook to be taken by you," he said, guiding the man to their ride. "I thought you'd be up the creek without a paddle by the time I arrived."

"Really? They seem like a friendly bunch..."

To Thomas' surprise, the goblin stopped by a stately, ebony coach, its curved frame lustrous and embellished with aureate flourishes and pulled by a pair of hardy, black stallions. "Given recent events, I doubt they were thrilled to see you."

"How so?"

"None of the patrons back there were human. There were even elves among them."

"Is that weird?"

Oscar, untying the horses from their posts, glanced at the man and did a double take. "J-just to be sure, milord, you were apprised of the current state of affairs, weren't you?"

Thomas cocked his head to one side. "Not really, no."

And the goblin muttered to himself under his breath. "The headmaster isn't the type to overlook these sorts of things, so I assume the decision to leave out that tidbit was deliberate on his part. If those are the circumstances, divulging any more would be overstepping my boundaries..."

"What was that?"

"I-it was nothing. Just musing to myself, is all." Oscar showed the man to the door and, with a respectful bow, opened it with a gloved hand. "Here you go, milord. Mind your step."

"Oh, thank you," he responded, catching the waft of waxed leather.

Labouriously, Thomas squeezed himself in, rocking the luxurious carriage with each clumsy shuffle. Partway, it became apparent that the coach was not designed for those who were well over six feet. Regardless, the man lowered his rear on the soft, quilted seats and hunched over to make himself smaller. Had he been inches shorter, this would've definitely been a comfortable place to rest his weary head.

Shutting the door, the goblin climbed onto the cushioned box seat up front and snatched his whip from the holder mounted on the dashboard. And with a swift lash against the air, a crack echoed through the backstreet, spurring the horses into motion. They clopped away from Kobold's Nook and made a sharp turn onto the broadway, where between rows of streetlamps and busy wayfarers, the carriage travelled alongside bicycles and automobiles.

With little space to move around, Thomas plopped his bag against the seat across his and grabbed the rolled-up newspaper sticking out—faint rustles filling the carriage as the man's fingers peeled back the crinkled pages. He sifted through the front-page story to distract himself from his sore back and aching knees, at the same time trying to get a grasp on the unrest that plagued the city.

As he did, Oscar's muffled voice cut through the din of metal wheels moving over cobblestone. "Is everything alright back there, milord? Nice and comfortable?"

"A-ah, yeah..!" Thomas dropped the papers, startled. "I'm all good!"

"Pardon the assumption, milord, but that very clearly doesn't seem to be the case." The goblin peeped at him through the window connecting his seat to the interior. "You needn't mince your words. You are our guest. And as academy staff, it is my job to tend to your needs."

"Well, if I had to say... I guess it is slightly cramped in here." The man folded his arms. "Just slightly, though..."

Oscar chortled. "Figured as much. We would've commissioned one of the larger coaches were we aware of how enormous you'd become. Even the headmaster could not have foreseen your astonishing growth. He still believes you to be as tall as you were the last time you two met!"

"That was more than a decade ago," Thomas said with a hint of nostalgia.

"Time moves differently for the elderly, milord. To you, ten years was a lifetime ago. To him, ten years passed in but a blink of an eye. When people reach his age, everything becomes a blur of fleeting moments. Most don't even live to see a hundred years, discounting the elves, of course."

"I see..." The man's eyes glazed over as he resumed reading through the newspaper in his hands.

An hour flew by, and just as Thomas was about to doze off, he was awakened by discordant shouting. Dazedly gazing out of the tinted window, the man was greeted by mobs of angry people, a wall of officers holding them back onto the pavement. Hundreds swarmed the pavement winding up to the academy and held up signs calling for its downfall. They then shifted their attention to the coach heading toward the academy gates.

Having found a target for their hostility, the rabble started jeering at the coachee.

"Get outta Wenton, fuckin' bluebloods! Go back to the forests where you belong!"

"We have no place for you walking disasters!"

"They hirin' moss-skins, now? You're no better than those knife-eared shitheads!"

Unflinchingly, the goblin kept his eyes on the road, ignoring the insults and slurs lobbed at him. As the carriage neared the lofty stone barrier separating the estate from the rest of Wenton, it was pelted with decaying fruits and rotten eggs; some struck Oscar, soiling his livery. In spite of this, he retained his composure and endured the onslaught. He knew better than anyone the importance of upholding the institute's reputation, especially in these tumultuous times.

Although shaken by the hail of spoiled food, the stallions persevered and trotted up to the wrought-iron bars beside a vandalised placard that read 'Wenton Academy for the Magickally-Gifted'. Hastily, a lanky, uniformed orc drew them open and beckoned the coach inside. "Get in! Quickly, quickly!" The gatekeeper ducked as mouldy tomatoes flew over his peaked cap. Once the coach safely made it within the walls, he slammed the gates and locked them tight.

The goblin, his garb sullied, smirked at the frazzled orc. "Rough day, eh Seb?"

"You're one to talk."

"Is the headmaster still at his office?"

"Should be. He's cancelled all his plans for the evening just to meet this guest," the gatekeeper squinted through the carriage's dirtied glass to inspect Thomas' silhouette. "That him?"

"Mm. Big fellow, isn't he? I was about to tell you how impressive it was to have found a human that rivalled an orc in size, but then I remembered your sorry arse and realised that that ain't such a high bar to clear."

"Yeah, yeah. Quit taking the piss and get a move-on, Ozzy. You smell like shit."

Oscar snickered as he urged the horses forward. Along a worn dirt path, the coach rattled past fields of green and into woods that spanned the margin of the enclosed land. Underneath the fall-coloured canopy and the dappled patches they cast, the forest floor was strewn with fallen leaves, each catching flecks of sunlight as the oncoming wheels stirred them aflutter. But with the windows spattered by chunks of waste, Thomas could barely enjoy the tranquil scenery.

Trees thinned, and the carriage emerged from the shade into a vast clearing. At the heart of the green expanse was a sprawling campus—centuries of arcane research embodied by a network of old historic brickwork scarred by pockmarks and gouges. The air here was different, crisp and pure, as though unpolluted by the odour of the city. And there loomed not a blot in the sky, an orange gradient gradually sweeping the horizon as twilight approached.