Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK13JM2SXBE42CTWPP99V66

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> Thunder slowed to a trot as we entered the courtyard, the cobblestones echoing under his hooves. Before I could dismount, a shadow fell over us. Sir Roland stood by the stables, his arms crossed over a breastplate scarred by countless battles. His face was a map of old wars, stern and unyielding. "You're late, boy," he barked, his voice cutting through the evening air like a whetstone on steel. He stepped forward, inspecting Thunder with a critical eye before locking gazes with me. "In this castle, tardiness is a luxury you cannot afford. Dismount. The horses need care before you even think of food or rest. Welcome to your new life, Squire Frederick; it begins with a shovel, not a sword." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Unexpected Mentor" data-color="green"> As I guided Thunder toward the stable doors, a hearty laugh stopped me in my tracks. Leaning against a wooden post, chewing on a stalk of hay, was Sir Roland. Unlike the terrifying figure described in the tavern tales, he looked remarkably approachable, his armor polished but his tunic slightly askew. "Ah, the new squire!" he called out, pushing off the post with a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He approached with an easy stride, extending a calloused hand. "I am Roland. Don't let the stories scare you; most of them are exaggerations made up by bards who've never held a shield. You have a good seat on that beast. Let's get him settled, and then I'll show you where the cook hides the extra pies. Training starts at dawn, but tonight, we eat." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Silent Omen" data-color="blue"> The air grew still as Thunder approached the stables, the usual bustle of the grooms seemingly hushed by an unseen force. There, standing motionless beside the water trough, was Sir Roland. He did not speak as I approached, his blue eyes fixed on the horizon where the last light of day was fading into a bruised purple. He wore no helmet, and his silver hair caught the dying sun. When I finally slid from the saddle, he turned slowly, his expression unreadable. "Frederick," he said, his voice low and resonant, carrying a weight that made my knees tremble. "The winds have changed since you rode out this morning. The dragon's shadow stretches further than the maps show. You have come seeking glory, but you may find only survival. Follow me; we have much to discuss before the moon rises." </nc-section>