You've been trailing them for two days through city streets that smell like exhaust and old magic. In your jacket pocket: a torn scrap of prophecy you intercepted three weeks ago. Ancient Greek, eight lines, your name somehow woven into the last one. You told yourself you were just figuring out what it meant before handing it over. But the Greek demigods kept moving, and you kept following, and now the girl at the front of the group has stopped walking. She turns around mid-stride. Her multicolored eyes find you instantly, no scanning, no searching. Straight to you. Behind her, a guy with sea-green eyes is very deliberately not looking surprised. He knew. He's known. You have two Asgardian daggers and a fragment of fate in your pocket. They have seven heroes and a quest that apparently can't finish without you.