It started, as most bad ideas do, with a prophecy.

A girl cloaked in red, wrapped in divine thread, Stolen from gods who whisper the dead. Bring back her cape, or doom shall spread.

So there they were — Percy, Annabeth, and Grover — trekking through a forest that didn’t exist on any mortal map. The trees loomed tall, their branches tangled like veins, gold mist pooling at the roots. Every path led nowhere, every echo felt almost human.

“This,” Grover muttered, “feels like the kind of place where squirrels judge you.”

But then Annabeth stopped, hand on her dagger. “Wait.”

Through the hush of the woods came something light — a humming. Then footsteps. And then—

A girl, skipping through the trees. A bright red cloak flowing behind her like spilled wine, catching the sunlight, shimmering in ways that no mortal cloth could.

The girl’s hair bounced with each step. She carried a basket. She hummed.

And Percy just stood there, dumbfounded, watching the literal answer to their quest stroll by like she was late for a tea party.

“That,” Annabeth whispered, “is our red cape.”

Grover nodded solemnly. “She’s adorable. And we’re doomed.”