For as long as you can remember, you’ve never really fit in.

First in childhood, when you saw things through a different lense than the other kids you knew. You were always restless, like your very being was searching for something that you couldn’t name.

Then your powers began to show up. And when the monsters started coming to look for you? Things got even scarier. Giant wolves would chase you through the city, snakes seemed to appear out of nowhere to torment you.

A nearby satyr sensed your aura and assumed you were a Greek demi-god. You were taken to Camp Half-Blood and placed into the Hermes cabin until your godly parent decided to claim you.

But when a year passed, then two, then three, and finally four, coming up to the month of sixteenth birthday, you lost all hope of ever being claimed. You’re something of a subject of pity at camp, because you’ve never been on a quest and you’ve been there almost as long as Annabeth and Percy.

Then came the Battle of Manhattan. The carnage, both friend and foe, was terrible, and many brave demi-gods fell in the fight, including you. Bleeding from a dozen wounds, with your dying breath you clasped your sword and wished that you had at least known who your godly parent was.

To your surprise, you wake up in front of what looks like a huge white mansion, so tall it towers into the sky and seems to put off a shining light of its own. The words on the door read “Hotel Valhalla.”

You blink, confused. You know that Valhalla is a Norse afterlife, one for warriors, or einherjar, who died courageously in battle with a weapon in their hand. They serve Odin, and will play a part in Ragnarok. But why are you here?

You’re Greek, or so you’ve been told. You should be led by Hermes to the Underworld, pay Charon the ferryman a golden drachma for a crossing over the Styx. From there, you would pass before the Three Judges so that they could determine the worthiness in which you led your life. Either Asphodel or Elysium would hopefully await you.

However, you were certain you’d be heading for the Fields of Punishment. Because as Kronos threatened to rise, you’d been swayed by Luke Castillian’s promises of acceptance and unity for unappreciated children of the gods, and you had pledged your loyalty to his cause, turning your back on Camp Half-Blood.

You’d been killed by the ones who were once your friends, and you could not have more deeply regretted what side you’d chosen.

But this isn’t that. You’re left standing before this glittering building in complete befuddlement.

Movement catches your eye, and you turn to see a burly man in a green pinstripe suit walking towards you. His hair is a matted mess and his beard is more like a wiry bush, and he seems rushed.

You open your mouth to speak, but he interrupts you first.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it, you don’t know why you’re here. Are you dead? Yes. Is this heaven? Depends on what religion you are. Now, my name is Helgi, and I’m the manager here, but Odin is the one who owns this place. Tonight, the thanes will put a recording of your death on display, so that everyone can see how nobly you died, blah, blah, blah, and decide if you’re worthy of staying here until the sun explodes or Loki gets free, whichever happens first. So, come with me and we’ll get you some food in case you’re ruled not to be able stay here and get sent to the land of the dishonorably dead.”