The Forge of Innovation

The acrid tang of burnt ozone still clung to Boy’s nostrils, a phantom scent that made his stomach churn. He lay on a cot that felt suspiciously like it was woven from discarded bandages and existential dread. His left arm, the one that had borne the brunt of the Shadow Maw’s… well, *maw*, throbbed with a dull ache that was more a reminder than an actual pain. He’d lost. Spectacularly. And not in a way that garnered admiring whispers of "he almost had it!" More like a resounding "oof, that was rough."

Professor Eldrin, bless his perpetually singed robes, had been surprisingly gentle after the whole ordeal. Gentle, that is, in the way a particularly stern librarian might be gentle when confiscating a particularly egregious overdue book. "Boy," he'd said, his voice raspy from what Boy suspected was a suppressed chuckle, "while your ability to summon a perfectly chilled lemonade on demand is… admirable, perhaps we should focus on… not being eaten."

Boy had managed a weak grin. "But it was really good lemonade, Professor. Imported lemons, you know."