Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK965YPQP6CTZYJBW39T58G

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Knight of Dunmar" data-color="red"> As Thunder slowed to a trot, the clatter of hooves echoed off the cobbles of the outer yard. Frederick slid from the saddle, legs unsteady after the long ride. The air here smelled of hay, leather, and horses—comforting and strange all at once. Near the stables, a broad-shouldered knight in a weathered surcoat turned from where he had been speaking to a stablehand. His dark hair was shot with a single, striking streak of white at the temple, and a long scar traced a pale line from his jaw to just below his left eye. Despite the roughness of his appearance, his grey gaze was keen and not unkind. “You ride well enough for one fresh from the road,” the knight said, striding forward. His chainmail sang softly with each step. “You must be Frederick of Harthollow.” Frederick straightened and tried to remember how a proper bow was supposed to look. “Yes, my lord. I mean—sir. Frederick, squire… as requested.” The knight’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Titles can wait. I am Sir Roland of Dunmar, master of squires in this castle. These will be your stables, your training grounds, and your miseries for the next few years.” He laid a calloused hand on Thunder’s neck, feeling the stallion’s lathered coat. “You pushed him hard. Eager to arrive, were you?” “I didn’t want to be late,” Frederick admitted. Sir Roland studied him a moment longer, as though weighing the truth of him, then nodded toward the stable doors. “Good. Eagerness can be tempered. Laziness cannot. See to your horse first, then we’ll find you a bed and a bite of something that barely passes for food. After that, we begin.” “Begin what, sir?” Frederick asked. Roland’s gaze drifted to the high walls, then to the distant mountains beyond the castle, where a faint, smoky haze stained the darkening sky. “Your training, boy,” he said quietly. “The king wants every sword ready. The old stories are stirring again. Men whisper of wings over the northern peaks.” He looked back at Frederick, eyes suddenly hard. “If you are to serve here, you will need to be more than a boy who rides well. You will need to be a man who stands when others run.” Thunder snorted and stamped, as if in agreement. Frederick swallowed, feeling the weight of the knight’s words settle over him like an invisible cloak. “Yes, Sir Roland,” he said. “Good.” Roland clapped him on the shoulder, almost knocking him off balance. “Now move. The last squire who kept a horse waiting got muck duty for a week. And you, Frederick of Harthollow, look like someone who might just survive it.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Test at the Stables" data-color="green"> Thunder’s hooves clicked sharply as Frederick led him toward the stables, the din of the castle yard rising around them—shouted orders, the ring of steel on steel, the low rumble of voices. Smoke from the kitchen fires mingled with the earthy smell of horses. A tall figure stepped out from the shadow of the stable archway. His armor was plain but well-kept, bearing only a small crest on the chest: a silver tower pierced by a black lance. His beard was trimmed close, his brown hair tied at the nape of his neck. His eyes, when they settled on Frederick, were as sharp as drawn blades. “You’re late,” the knight said. Frederick’s heart lurched. “I—am I, sir? The sun hasn’t fully set—” “By my reckoning, you’re late,” the man replied, not unkindly, but with a firmness that left no room for argument. He stepped closer, boots grinding grit against stone. “I am Sir Roland. I am to see what’s to be made of you.” Frederick glanced around the busy yard. No one else seemed to be paying them any heed. “I’m Frederick, sir. Of Harthollow. I was sent by Lord—” “I know who sent you,” Sir Roland cut in. “I read the seal on your summons myself.” His gaze traveled over Frederick’s travel-stained cloak, to his hands on Thunder’s reins. “First lesson, Frederick of Harthollow: a knight answers to more than lords and letters. He answers to his duties.” “Yes, sir,” Frederick said, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. He wasn’t sure what he’d already done wrong, but the sense that he had somehow failed gnawed at him. Roland nodded toward Thunder. “You’ve ridden that stallion hard. He’s hot and tired. What do you do first, boy? Report to your betters or see to your mount?” Frederick hesitated only a moment. “My horse, sir. Thunder comes first. Without him, I might not have arrived at all.” A flicker of approval crossed Roland’s face. “Good. You have sense enough not to abandon your own footing. Remember that.” He gestured, and a stableboy hurried forward to take Thunder’s reins, but Roland lifted a hand to stop him. “No. Let the new squire do it. There are many here who can polish steel and speak pretty vows. Fewer know how to care for the thing that carries them into danger.” Frederick led Thunder into an empty stall, loosening the cinches with clumsy fingers under Roland’s watchful gaze. His arms ached, and his eyes stung with fatigue, but he forced his hands steady. Hay rustled, and the horse nudged his shoulder, breath warm against his neck. When at last Thunder was settled and rubbing his nose contentedly in the feed, Frederick turned back. Sir Roland was still there, arms folded, expression unreadable. “You passed the first test,” Roland said. “That was a test?” Frederick blurted. Roland’s mouth quirked. “Every moment here is a test. You’ll learn that. Come, then. I’ll show you where you’ll sleep, where you’ll bleed, and where you’ll hopefully learn not to disgrace that horse of yours.” Frederick fell into step beside him. “And where I’ll learn to be a knight, sir?” Roland’s gaze slid toward him, appraising. “We shall see, boy. Being a knight is more than a sword and a saddle. By the time I’m done with you, you may wish you’d stayed in Harthollow.” Frederick didn’t answer. He only squared his shoulders and walked on into the deepening dusk of the castle yard, Sir Roland’s stride steady and unyielding beside him. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: Rumors in the Yard" data-color="blue"> Frederick drew Thunder to a halt near the row of weathered stone stables. The noise of the outer yard dulled here to a steady murmur—the shuffle of hooves, the soft thud of hay bales being dropped, the distant clash of practice swords. A man in a faded blue surcoat stood by the open stable door, arms resting on the haft of a muck rake as if it were a spear. His mail was old but well-oiled, and a sword hung at his hip, worn smooth at the hilt. His eyes, a clear, piercing blue, tracked Frederick’s approach with the same attention a hawk gave a rabbit. “New arrival?” he called, voice roughened by years of shouting over battlefields and training yards. “Yes, sir,” Frederick replied, slipping from the saddle. His legs trembled slightly when his boots hit the ground, but he straightened at once. “Frederick. From Harthollow.” The man pushed off the rake and stepped closer, giving Thunder a critical look. “Good lines on this one. Tempered, but proud. Like his rider, I hope.” He extended a hand, not for Frederick, but for the horse to sniff. Thunder obliged, snorting softly. “I am Sir Roland,” the knight said, finally turning his gaze on Frederick. “You fall under my charge now. That means your mistakes are my shame. Try not to make me hang my head often.” Frederick swallowed. “I’ll do my best, Sir Roland.” Roland gave him a brief nod. “We’ll see what your ‘best’ amounts to. For now, see to your horse. A squire who neglects his mount will neglect his armor, then his oath, then his honor. It’s a slippery slope, and full of cowards at the bottom.” Frederick led Thunder into an empty stall, the wood worn smooth by generations of warhorses. As he loosened the saddle straps, he heard Roland’s boots step in behind him. “You came at a noisy time,” Roland remarked. “Is the castle always this busy?” Frederick asked, glancing over his shoulder. “Busy? This is quiet.” Roland leaned against the stall’s post, arms folded. “The king has called bannermen from the north and east. Old alliances are being dusted off like forgotten shields. Men don’t move in such numbers unless something’s stirring the nest.” Frederick’s fingers fumbled on a buckle. “Is there a war coming, sir?” Roland tilted his head, considering. “Some call it that already. Others say it’s only a precaution. But I’ve lived long enough to know the difference between a drill and a dread in a man’s eyes.” He nodded toward the far mountains, visible through the open end of the stable, their peaks dark against the fading sky. “There are tales, boy. Whispers of lights over the peaks at night. Of cattle found burned in their fields with no fire near. Of a sound in the distance like mountains grinding their teeth.” Frederick stilled, the last strap half-unbuckled. “Dragon tales,” he said quietly. He’d grown up on such stories—ancient beasts, long gone, the Last Dragon slain before his grandfather’s grandfather’s time. Roland’s gaze sharpened. “Children’s tales, they call them. Yet the king sharpens his swords and calls his knights to heel.” He shrugged, the motion setting his mail softly clinking. “Believe what you like. Your task remains the same.” “And what is my task, sir?” Frederick asked. Roland pushed away from the post. “For tonight, it’s to make sure that horse is fed and brushed, then to find your bunk and sleep so soundly you forget your own name. At dawn, your task will be to survive my training.” He paused at the stall door, looking Frederick over as if measuring his weight in steel. “If the old tales are waking, boy, the world will need more than stories. It will need steel, and courage, and those rare few who don’t break when the sky itself starts to burn.” Frederick met his gaze, heart pounding with a mix of fear and something like fierce, reckless hope. “I won’t break, sir.” Roland’s mouth curved in the faintest of smiles. “Good. We’ll start there.” </nc-section>