Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK96ZZJKXVD5W8KYVZQWYN9

<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> Frederick swung down from the saddle beside the stables, legs stiff from the long ride. Thunder—no, the gelding he’d borrowed from his uncle—snorted and tossed its head as a stableboy hurried forward with a lead rope. The air here smelled of warm hay, oiled leather, and the sharp tang of iron from the nearby smithy. “Easy now,” Frederick murmured, patting the horse’s damp neck as if the animal could hear the nervousness in his voice. A shadow fell across him. He looked up and found a knight leaning against the stable doorframe as though it belonged to him as much as the castle did. Sir Roland’s armor was unfastened at the throat, his cloak thrown back to show a battered breastplate that had seen more than tourneys. His hair, iron-gray at the temples, was tied off with a strip of leather, and his eyes were the clear, cold blue of winter rivers. “So,” the knight said, voice low but carrying, “you’re the new squire.” Frederick straightened, suddenly aware of every speck of dust on his boots. “Frederick of Brackenmere, sir. I—I reported at the gate as instructed.” Sir Roland’s gaze traveled over him with a soldier’s precision—hands, posture, sword-belt, the way Frederick stood too eager and too unsure at once. At last the knight pushed away from the doorframe and offered a gloved hand, not in ceremony but in measure. “Sir Roland of Greywatch,” he said. “Welcome to Stoneward. If you intend to survive your first week, you’ll learn three things quickly: how to muck a stall, how to keep your mouth shut in the hall, and how not to flinch when the practice blade comes at your ribs.” Frederick swallowed, then managed a nod. “Yes, sir.” Sir Roland’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost not. “Good. Start by seeing your horse settled. Then meet me in the yard before the last light dies. We’ll see what the castle has been sent.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> The stables were a world apart from the echoing stone of the main gate—alive with stamp and snort, with the rustle of straw and the soft clink of tack. Frederick led his mount under the lintel, blinking as the air turned dimmer and warmer, the scent of animals and hay wrapping around him like a blanket. “Mind his left hoof,” a stablehand warned, reaching for the reins. “He kicks when he’s tired.” “I’ll remember,” Frederick said, though his fingers were already aching from holding on through the ride. “Don’t trouble yourself,” came a voice from behind him, dry as a page from a ledger. “Stable hands will do the remembering. Squires do the learning.” Frederick turned. A knight stood just outside the stall row where the light slanted in—tall, broad-shouldered, his cloak clasped with a simple pin instead of jewels. Sir Roland’s armor was not polished to parade shine; it was clean, practical, and nicked in places that spoke of real steel. A sword hung at his side like an extra limb, and his expression suggested he had no patience for nonsense—yet his eyes were not cruel. “Sir… Roland?” Frederick guessed, recalling the name whispered by the gate guards. “The same.” The knight’s gaze flicked to the horse, to the way Frederick held the bridle, to the travel stains on his sleeves. “You arrived without getting yourself killed on the road. That’s a better beginning than some.” Frederick felt heat rise to his ears. “I did my best, sir.” “Hm.” Sir Roland stepped closer, boots muffled by straw. He reached out and, with surprising gentleness, checked the horse’s girth strap as if habit compelled him. “Your best will improve. It must.” Frederick drew himself up. “I’m here to serve and to train.” Sir Roland studied him a heartbeat longer, as if weighing those words against something unseen. Then he nodded once. “Good. Leave your gear with the quartermaster after you’ve seen the horse fed. Then find me in the yard. We begin before the castle decides you’re more trouble than you’re worth.” As he turned away, Frederick caught the faintest sound—metal rubbing against metal, the quiet music of a knight who moved like a drawn blade. “Yes, sir,” Frederick said to the retreating cloak, and to the stables, and to whatever fate had brought him here. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> Frederick followed the stableboy past rows of stalls where patient eyes gleamed in the half-light. Somewhere a horse stamped; somewhere else, a groom laughed at a joke Frederick didn’t hear. The castle’s noise faded behind him, replaced by the steady, comforting rhythm of animals and work. He was unbuckling the saddle when a man’s silhouette filled the stable doorway. The figure paused there as if taking stock of everything at once—the horses, the boys, the tools, the stranger who had just arrived with road-dust still clinging to him. Then he stepped inside, and lamplight caught on the edge of mail and the dull shine of a well-worn breastplate. “Frederick of Brackenmere?” the knight asked. Frederick startled, nearly dropping the saddle. “Yes, sir!” The knight’s brows rose a fraction at the clatter. “If you’re going to leap at every sound, the training yard will eat you alive.” “I—” Frederick forced his hands to steady. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t expect—” “No one ever expects their life to begin in a stable,” the knight interrupted, voice calm. He crossed the straw-strewn floor with an easy confidence, the kind that made space without demanding it. “Sir Roland.” Frederick had imagined knights as shining towers from the songs—brighter than the sun, louder than thunder. Sir Roland was neither. He was restraint made flesh: controlled, watchful, a man who had learned the value of quiet. Sir Roland nodded at the horse. “Good animal. Treat him well. A squire who mistreats a mount will mistreat a blade, and a man who mistreats a blade will mistreat a friend.” Frederick swallowed. “Yes, sir. I won’t.” The knight’s eyes softened, just slightly, as if he’d heard the honesty there. “You’ve come to learn the ways of the castle. That begins with simple things.” He reached out and tapped a strap Frederick had left twisted. “Straighten your tack. Stand with your shoulders back. Look people in the eye when they speak your name.” Frederick corrected the strap at once, cheeks warming. “Like this?” “Better,” Sir Roland said. Then, as if the matter were settled and the world could now proceed, he extended his hand—not a grand gesture, but a grounded one. “Welcome, Frederick. Finish here. When the bells ring for supper, you’ll stand behind my chair in the hall and learn to listen.” Frederick took the offered hand, the glove rough against his palm. “I’ll be there, sir.” Sir Roland released him and turned toward the door. “See that you are. Stoneward has little mercy for those who arrive late.” And with that warning trailing like a cloak behind him, the knight left Frederick alone among the horses—heart thudding, stomach tight, and a strange spark of certainty kindling where fear had been. </nc-section>