The great hall of Ithaca fell silent as the young man stepped forward. He couldn’t have been older than 20—his face still held the boyish softness of youth. Penelope furrowed her brow. She had never seen him before. He barely looked strong enough to lift Odysseus’s great bow, let alone string it.

The suitors scoffed, mocking him as he took his place before the weapon.

“Careful, boy,” said Antinous, his voice dripping with disdain. “You might snap your arm before you string that bow.”

Ignoring the jeers, the young man ran his fingers over the ancient wood, his expression unreadable. Then, with a quiet confidence that silenced the room, he placed his hand on the string.

Penelope watched intently from her seat, her heart pounding. The challenge was meant to buy her time, to delay the inevitable. Surely this boy—this child—couldn’t possibly succeed.

And yet, the bow bent.

The hall erupted in gasps as the young man strung it with a single fluid motion. His movements were precise, effortless, as if he had been born for this moment.

“No,” Penelope whispered, her knuckles white as she gripped the armrest of her chair.

He reached for an arrow, his focus unshaken by the murmurs around him. The suitors, once so smug, now looked uneasy. One by one, he took aim at the line of axe heads.

Thwack. The first arrow shot through with perfect precision.

Thwack. The second followed, then the third.

By the twelfth arrow, the room was in stunned silence. The young man lowered the bow and turned to face the crowd.

The suitors erupted into chaos, shouting protests and accusations. Penelope rose slowly from her seat, her expression a mask of composed disbelief.

“This was not meant to happen,” she said, her voice calm but edged with steel. She descended the dais to stand before the young man, who now held the bow with the casual air of someone holding an old friend.

“Who are you?” she demanded, her gaze piercing. “What is your name, and how is it you have achieved what no other man here could?”