{Isabella}
The workshop was a shithole.
Isabella stood outside the cramped building, nose wrinkling at the smell of cheap solder and burnt wood wafting through the gaps in the door. A hand-painted sign above read "DERRICK'S MAGICAL SUPPLIES" in letters that were already peeling.
[This is where my reputation is going to die. In a back-alley rat den that smells like burnt hair.]
She pushed the door open.
The interior was somehow worse than the exterior suggested. Worktables cluttered with half-finished projects, tools scattered everywhere, and in the corner—
Wands.
Dozens of them. Crude, ugly things that looked nothing like Isabella's elegant designs. But they were recognizable enough. The basic shape was there. The concept was there.
Her concept. Stolen.
A wiry human man looked up from his workbench, squinting at her through smudged glasses.
"Shop's closed. Come back tomorrow."
"Are you Derrick?"
"Who's asking?"
