The Inventor's Workshop

The scent of ozone and singed dragon scales clung to Boy’s robes like a particularly stubborn stain. Not that he minded, not really. It was a good stain, a reminder that he’d survived a rather unpleasant encounter with something that looked like a grumpy, oversized badger with too many teeth and a penchant for existential dread. He’d managed to… well, not *defeat* the Shadow Maw, not in the traditional sense. More like he’d inconvenienced it into a tactical retreat, which, given its previous performance, felt like a monumental victory.

He was back in his workshop, a cluttered sanctuary of half-finished projects and the faint, persistent hum of latent magic. It wasn’t exactly the pristine, orderly laboratory one might expect from a prodigy. Dust bunnies the size of small rodents congregated in the corners, and various metallic contraptions, some vaguely weapon-like, others resembling overly complicated toasters, lay scattered across his workbench. Boy, however, navigated the chaos with the practiced ease of a seasoned explorer in a particularly messy jungle.

Professor Eldrin had, with a sigh that suggested the weight of centuries and the general idiocy of youth, declared him “fit for return to studies.” This was, of course, a generous interpretation of Boy’s state. He’d been less “fit for studies” and more “barely able to hold a quill without his hand shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.” But the hum of his own magic, the familiar thrum of creation waiting to be coaxed into existence, had a way of mending him better than any potion or poultice.