There was a narrow chamber within the palace at Phthia, known only to the royal household and a few trusted attendants. A slit window, high on the wall, admitted a thin shaft of daylight, but most of the room’s glow came from a small oil lamp with a clay wick-holder. The air was sharp with the resinous smoke of burning pine and the faint sweetness of stored herbs. Upon a low chest stood small wooden figurines, offerings or keepsakes, their surfaces darkened from years of touch. The space carried a sense of privacy and quiet devotion, more like a shrine than a workshop.

At a low table sat a man with sun-bleached, slightly tangled hair. His frame was lean, though broad-shouldered, shaped by years of war and labor. In his hands he worked a small piece of wood, guiding a bronze knife along the grain to carve a figure. His sharp, prominent nose cast a shadow in the lamplight. Hearing the door’s hinges groan, Peleus turned, setting down his knife, and offered a restrained smile.

“Forgive me,” he said, voice mild. “My hands are occupied.”