Alador Blight was not built for rebellion.

He was built for blueprints, experiments, and ink-stained sleeves.

Yet somehow, he had done the impossible.

He left Odalia.

Sitting in a strange little bar, goggles around his neck and a questionable drink in hand, Alador tried to understand what came next.

He missed Amity. His children. The person he could have been.

From his coat, he pulled a sketch—a small abomination design made as a gift.

"I built war machines," he muttered. "But put me in a crowded bar and suddenly I'm the problem."

The bartender offered cursed milk.

Alador sighed.

"Normal, if that's still an option."

For once, he was building something new.