I was ten when I asked Hephaestus for a favor.

  It was early evening on Olympus, and the sun filtered through the glass-domed ceiling of the forge like a halo of fire. Sparks danced in the air as Hephaestus worked, each swing of his hammer echoing through the walls like a heartbeat. I crept closer, my sandals scraping softly across the stone, my heart pounding harder than any strike of metal on metal.

  He noticed me before I spoke. Of course he did. “Cassie,” he said gruffly, not unkindly. “Shouldn’t you be with Athena?”

  I shook my head. “I need something.”

  He raised a brow, wiping his hands on a soot-stained cloth. He towered over me, all heat and iron, but there was no menace in his presence. Just power. “Do you, now?”

  I nodded, stepping forward. “I want to see them. The other demigods. The ones on Earth.”

  His expression didn’t change, but the air around us shifted. The forge dimmed just slightly, as if even the fire knew this request was different. “That’s not something I can give you lightly.”

  “Please,” I said quickly. “I know I’m not supposed to be there. I know the gods want me to stay here, hidden. But I can’t do nothing. They’re like me. I should’ve been with them.”

  He turned away, as if the weight of my words made even him uncomfortable. For a moment, I thought that was it—he would refuse me, like the others always did.

  But then he sighed. A low, heavy sound. “Why come to me?”

  “Because you build things that last. You made thrones, weapons, shields. You made armor for gods. I thought… maybe you could make something for me too. Not to fight. Just to watch. Please, I just want to see them. To know they’re okay.”

  He was silent for a long time. Then he stepped aside and gestured toward the workbench. “Show me what you’re asking for.”

  My breath caught in my throat. I had spent weeks sketching it in secret—an array of mirrors, each one connected to a different demigod. Windows, not portals. Just views. I unfolded the scroll I’d hidden under my tunic and smoothed it out across the bench.

  Hephaestus leaned in, studying my childish scrawl. I watched his eyes scan the labels I’d written for each mirror: Zoe. Xandor. Peter. Damian. Helena. Hector. All twelve names.

  His brow furrowed. “That’s a lot of names.”

  “They’re all important. They matter.”

  He studied me for a long time after that, and I didn’t look away.

  Finally, he gave a single, quiet nod. “Alright. But you have to promise me something.”

  I blinked up at him. “Anything.”

  “Promise me you’ll only watch. No meddling. No breaking the rules. Not even a whisper.”

  My chest ached, but I nodded. “I promise.”

  He grunted, then turned to gather materials. “Then let’s get started.”

  And just like that, my sanctuary began to take shape. The room of mirrors. My quiet rebellion.

  The one place on Olympus that belonged to me.

  The only way I could keep my promise to the people who didn’t even know I existed—yet.

  The room was quiet except for the soft hum of magic and the occasional flicker of candlelight. Dozens of mirrors surrounded me, lining every wall like windows into a world I could never touch. They shimmered with movement, each one tuned to a different thread. A different person. A different life.

  I had convinced Hephaestus to make them for me when I was just a child. Back then, I was the only one on Olympus who didn’t belong at the table of gods, the only one small enough to go unnoticed, the only one desperate to stay connected to the world I’d been taken from. The forge god had humored me at first—until he realized how serious I was. I wanted to see them, all of them. My friends. My future. The family I should have had.

  It had been dangerous, even then. Being a child on Olympus meant being surrounded by power that didn’t always care whether you survived it. But the mirrors had given me something the gods never could—hope. A connection. A way to watch over the demigods I would never get to stand beside.

  Some mirrors shimmered with soft hues of blue and gold, holding images of the demigods I had watched my whole life—scenes of quiet strength, of training, of moments they thought no one saw. Others glowed dimmer, darker—showing Cole, his growing army of monsters, and the ever-shifting locations they moved between.

  These mirrors were my sanctuary. My rebellion. My only way to feel close to the world I had been kept from. And though I loved them all—the demigods who didn’t know me—each mirror reminded me of what I’d lost, and what I still had to fight for.

  I sat cross-legged in the center of the room, the floor cool beneath me, a mug of tea long gone cold resting beside me. My eyes drifted from one mirror to another, always circling back to the one that showed Zoe.

  She was in the van with the others, leaning her head against the window as the world passed by in a blur of trees and road. I could feel the tension in her shoulders, even from here. The weight she carried. The pain of what they had lost.

  And still, she practiced.

  While the others talked or stared out at the mountains in the distance, Zoe was focused. I watched her reach into Damian’s mind gently, trying again to fine-tune her control. Her hands didn’t move, but her brows furrowed in concentration, and Damian smiled faintly as he guided her.

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  I smiled too, pride warming my chest. She was strong. Stronger than anyone realized. And even though she didn’t know me, even though she had snapped at me in the dream realm, I still believed in her.

  Even if she hated me.

  She was living the life I was supposed to live. The life I had been born into The one I had dreamed of, begged for.

  And I had watched it unfold from afar.

  She turned toward Bay and Phoenix, who were lounging in the back of the van. Phoenix had one leg propped on the seat, gesturing animatedly as she recounted something clearly absurd, and Bay was mid-laugh, head tilted back, her silver-blue eyes glinting with mischief. They nudged each other like sisters sharing a secret, lost in their own little world. Despite the war looming ahead, despite everything they’d lost, they could still laugh. Still joke. Still live.

  That was who they were. Phoenix—quiet but cutting when she wanted to be, always watching, always ready to fight. Bay—blunt and bold, her moods like the tides, but loyal to the core. Together, they were a whirlwind of sharp wit and unwavering fire. They reminded me that even in darkness, joy could be defiant.

  I envied them, sometimes. Not because they weren’t afraid, but because they didn’t let it stop them from being themselves.

  My gaze shifted to another mirror—a larger one, darker at the edges.

  Helena.

  Her hands were shaking.

  Cole stood just behind her, voice low, and I could see the pain in her eyes as she nodded. There was a flicker of resistance—just a second of hesitation—and then it was gone. I saw the exact moment she broke, the moment something inside her folded beneath the weight of his lies and magic. Her shoulders slumped, not in surrender, but in defeat. Her hands stopped shaking. Her eyes dulled. And I knew—he had her.

  She turned.

  And then she helped him break Hector.

  He had fought so hard to stay with her. Even bound in chains, even bruised and bloodied, Hector had refused to leave Helena’s side. When the monsters tried to drag them apart, he had roared like a beast, using every last ounce of his strength to keep her in his arms. “She needs me,” he kept saying, over and over, like it was the only truth that mattered.

  Helena was limp against his chest, her breath shallow, her skin too pale. But he clung to her as if by holding her close, he could protect her from the storm that had already broken over their heads.

  And then she opened her eyes.

  But they weren’t the same.

  They were empty.

  And when she looked at Hector, she didn’t recognize him.

  Something inside him shattered.

  I saw it—the moment his fire flickered and went out, not all at once, but piece by piece. He stopped fighting. He let the monsters take him. And when Cole stepped forward, smiling like a victor, Hector didn’t even look up.

  He just held Helena tighter.

  Because he knew.

  He had lost her.

  And he had nothing left to fight for.

  I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, fury and heartbreak twisting through me.

  I turned my focus to another mirror. Stephen. His image crackled with heat, the air around the glass shimmering from the sheer force of the magic it reflected. Stephen had been angry for as long as I could remember. And it had always felt wrong—like a twist in the universe—for a child of Hestia, the goddess of hearth and peace, to burn so hot with fury. But Cole had seen that too. He had taken Stephen’s pain, his abandonment, his confusion, and shaped it into a blade. A weapon.

  Now, Stephen stood in the center of a scorched training ground, his fists alight with fire, his eyes blazing. He was sparring with the twins—Ella and Leander—but it wasn’t training. It was war disguised as preparation. I watched, heart heavy, as Stephen hurled a roaring burst of flame toward Leander, then pivoted with brutal precision to block Ella’s strike. His fire didn’t just burn—it pulsed with emotion, with memories, with everything Cole had forced into him.

  And still, I could see the boy he used to be. The one who laughed loudest when someone fell in the mud, who always made sure everyone had marshmallows on campfire nights. The one who’d once told Helena, quietly, that fire made him feel safe. Because it kept the dark things away.

  Now, he was the fire. And there was no one left to hold the dark back from him.

  Now I focused on another mirror. Angelina. Out of all of them, my heart ached the most for her. She was one of the youngest of the twelve, still growing into herself when Cole laid his traps. He didn’t just break her—he twisted her sense of duty, her need to protect, and forged them into weapons she never would’ve wielded on her own. He made her believe that siding with him was the only way to keep her friends safe. That obedience was loyalty.

  And Angelina—fierce, sharp, selfless Angelina—had believed him.

  Her powers were uniquely dangerous. She could disrupt balance itself, shake the stability of any ability she came near. The shockwaves she sent out weren’t just physical—they could destabilize magic, unmoor the others from their strengths. Cole used that. He positioned her like a blade, always ready to unmake her own team’s defenses.

  If Zoe and the others wanted to stand a chance in the battle ahead, they would have to find a way to face Angelina. To reach her. Or break through her. And I wasn’t sure which one would be harder.

  But gods, I hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  I had watched it all. I had known.

  And I couldn’t say a word.

  When Zoe and the others had fallen into the trap Cole had set, when she had trusted the twins and rushed to save Helena, I had known it was too late. And still, I couldn’t warn her.

  The gods would not allow it.

  I stood in the center of the mirror room a moment longer, letting the images wash over me—Zoe’s determination, Peter’s steady focus, Xandor’s quiet protectiveness, Damian’s playful shield for the pain he carried. Bay and Phoenix, fierce and bright. They didn’t know I was watching. They never had.

  But I knew them. Every scar. Every laugh. Every moment they stood back up after being knocked down.

  And now they were heading toward war.

  The air felt heavy, like the room itself held its breath. I turned away from the mirrors before the weight in my chest could pull me down completely. My footsteps echoed through the marble halls of Olympus, silent save for the wind that curled around the columns. I didn’t hesitate—I knew exactly where I was going.

  The goddesses wouldn’t like it. They never did.

  I stormed into the high hall with my fists clenched and my heart racing.

  Athena sat at her long table, a scroll in one hand and a pen in the other. Hecate stood by the window, staring out into the stars like she could see beyond Olympus itself. Hera was already watching me, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

  “I need to go,” I said.

  No one moved.

  “They need me.”

  “Cassie,” Athena said, voice level. “You know why you can’t.”

  “No,” I snapped. “I know why you don’t want me to. There’s a difference.”

  Hecate turned to me, her expression unreadable. “It would make things worse.”

  “Worse?” I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Have you seen what’s happening? They’re falling apart. One by one. Cole is winning. And I’m just supposed to sit here and watch?”

  “You are not like them,” Hera said, each word laced with warning.

  “Yes, I am!” My voice cracked. “I’m a demigod. Half-human. I’m one of them, whether you like it or not.”

  Athena shook her head. “The prophecy is clear. If you were on Earth with the others, the gates would open.”

  “Then maybe they should,” I whispered.

  That silenced the room.

  I felt the burn of tears press behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. “You made this decision when I was a child. You brought me here. You said it was to protect me, but I know the truth now. You were trying to protect Olympus. Not me.”

  No one argued.

  Of course they didn’t.

  Because it was true.

  Apollo had seen the prophecy. When the blood of all twelve touches earth, Olympus shall tremble. He had seen what would happen if I stood beside the others. And so they made sure I never could.

  I wasn’t angry at the demigods.

  I was angry at the gods.

  And still, I watched. I sat in my tower of mirrors and followed every step, every heartbeat, every fall.

  I saw the road leading to Olympic National Park, winding like a thread toward fate.

  And I knew.

  Everything was coming to a head.

  And I would do everything in my power to help them.

  Even if they never knew I existed.