You were supposed to be an easy find. That’s what Chiron said. That’s what the Oracle implied. A simple retrieval: go to Harvard, locate the unclaimed demigod, escort them back to Camp Half-Blood before monsters or fate got there first.

But nothing about you was simple. Percy pushed open the heavy courtroom doors first. The hall was full — attorneys murmuring, pens clicking, students scribbling notes in the jury box. And there you were at the front, standing confidently beside your client, case files stacked in neat pink-tabbed piles. Your posture was straight, polished, perfect — the kind of poise that came from long practice and a stubborn refusal to be underestimated. Nothing about you looked like a kid who once went to fashion school. You looked like someone who belonged here.

Annabeth stopped mid-step. Grover nearly dropped his disguise brochure.

Percy, whispering, leaned closer. “…That’s them?”

They slid into an empty bench in the back, trying to look like normal spectators. From here, they could see the details more clearly — the neat handwriting in your notes, the faint pink of your highlighter, the subtle fashion touches that hadn’t left you even after transferring from design to law.