Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9DNB1F7XYDY0RX21GT22V

<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> I reined Thunder to a halt beside the stables as the last of the sun washed the yard in copper. The air smelled of hay and sweat and iron. A man in battered pauldrons stepped from the shadow of the eaves, the lamplight catching on the gray at his temples. His gaze swept horse and rider in a single, measuring glance before it softened into something like approval. "You must be Frederick," he said, offering a gloved hand. "Sir Roland. We meet where real work is done." His grip was firm, the leather warm. He ran a practiced palm along Thunder's neck, and my stallion shivered, then leaned gratefully into the touch. "Fine animal," Sir Roland murmured. "Keep him sound and he'll keep you alive. First lesson of knighthood." A groom scurried past; Roland nodded toward an empty stall. "Unsaddle him, brush him down, then water—small sips. Save your bowing for the great hall; here, a steady hand and honest eyes are worth more than silk words." I slid to the ground, legs trembling from the ride. He noticed, said nothing, only lifted the gate with a creak and stood aside. "Training bell rings at dawn in the east yard," he added as Thunder snorted into fresh straw. "Come with clean boots, a clear head, and no excuses." He paused, the ghost of a smile in his beard. "Welcome to the castle, Frederick. It’s a hard place, but it has room for the willing." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> The stables loomed like a low fortress of timber and thatch, warm breath and lantern smoke curling from the open doors. I swung down from Thunder, boots hitting packed earth. Before I could straighten, a voice cut through the clatter of buckets. "Reins too high. You'll sour his mouth that way." A broad-shouldered knight stepped from between the stalls, arms crossed over a dented breastplate. His eyes were the pale of old steel. "Sir Roland," he said, as if naming the weather. "You’re Frederick. Good—on time. That’s the last easy thing you’ll do." Heat crawled up my neck. I lowered the reins at once. He nodded, no praise in it, only acknowledgement. "Unsaddle. Walk him till the steam leaves him. Water in turns. Then muck the stall you use—leave it better than you found it. Your first lesson begins with a brush, not a blade." When I hesitated at the unfamiliar buckles, he stepped close, brisk and sure, showing me once, fast. "Learn with your hands. Ask with your mouth after." I led Thunder to a stall, heart hammering. Sir Roland followed, silent as a shadow, watching how I moved, where I looked, what I missed. "At dawn," he said finally, turning away, "yard wall, eastern side. If you sleep through the bell, my boot will wake you. And boy—" I froze. "Mind the horse before you mind yourself. That’s how men live long enough to be called 'sir.'" </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> Barn swallows stitched the dusk above the stable eaves, their cries thin and silver. Thunder tossed his head at the press of smells—smoke, old leather, rain in the distant earth. A knight stepped from the shadows where the lantern light faltered, sun-lines and scar-lines crossing his face in a map I could not read. "Frederick," he said, as if the name had been carried to him on the wind. "I am Sir Roland. We’ll shake hands here, where oaths learn the weight of hay and sweat." His palm was callused, his ring a dark glass that drank the light. He moved to Thunder, speaking low in a language of breath and shoulder. The stallion settled, as if recognizing some quiet authority. "Good," Roland murmured. "He listens in his bones. Keep that habit." As we led Thunder into a stall, my eye caught a black crescent on a beam, an old scorch tucked high where most would not look. Roland followed my gaze; a flicker passed behind his eyes and was gone. "Storm years mark wood strangely," he said, too easily. "You’ll learn to read such signs when your hands know the simple work." He pressed a small charm into my palm—a sliver of ash-wood carved like a scale. "Tie it to his bridle. For steadiness. For listening." I swallowed. "To what?" "The things that move beneath banners and beyond walls," he said, half a smile in his beard. "Dawn. East yard. Come with clean boots and an open ear." And in the hush that followed, the rafters sighed like a sleeping thing. </nc-section>