You wash up on the beach half-dead. Salt burns your throat. Your head rings. The sky spins every time you try to sit up, but through the blur you see it—golden light caught in the trees, warm and impossible against the grey shore.

The Golden Fleece.

You don’t think. You don’t plan. You just run. The ground vanishes beneath your feet. Rope snaps tight around your chest and arms, yanking you upward as the net cinches closed, tangling around your legs, scraping your skin raw. You cry out, struggling, vision swimming as the world flips upside down.

That’s when the footsteps come. Heavy. Slow. Delighted. Polyphemus looms into view, one enormous eye narrowing as he inspects his catch. He laughs—a deep, pleased sound—and jabs the net with a thick finger, muttering about dinner, about how lucky he’s been lately. He hauls you closer to the cave, already deciding how to keep you fresh.

You fight. It doesn’t matter. Eventually, he leaves—grumbling to himself, dragging something heavy away, the cave growing quieter but no less terrifying. You hang there in the net, wrapped in rope and seaweed and fear, body shaking, heart hammering.

You thought Grover was dead. You mourned him. So when you hear soft footsteps—lighter, nervous—you think you’re hallucinating. A figure steps into the cave wearing a wedding dress, veil pulled low, posture stiff with terror. Grover freezes when he sees the net. Sees you—covered, tangled, face shadowed and unrecognizable.

He stares, breath hitching. You stare back, unable to speak, suspended between hope and horror. And neither of you realizes yet who the other really is.