Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9GE51MMD8CRQ7XVFZYA24

<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> Thunder’s hooves slowed to a clop as Frederick reined him in beside the stables. The air here was warm with the breath of horses and sharp with fresh hay, a smell that somehow made the castle feel less like a fortress and more like a home with beating hearts behind its walls. A man stepped out from the shadow of the stable doors as if he’d been waiting there all along. He was broad-shouldered and sun-browned, his hair the color of iron filings, his surcoat bearing the castle’s device. Unlike the mailed figures Frederick had seen along the battlements, this knight wore no helmet—only a sword at his hip and a calm authority in the set of his eyes. “Frederick of Westmere?” the man asked. Frederick swallowed. “Yes, sir.” “Sir Roland,” the knight said, offering a gloved hand. His grip was firm, not crushing—measuring rather than threatening. “We heard the squire Master Halden promised us would finally arrive before winter. I was beginning to think you’d been eaten by bandits or lost to the marsh lights.” “I—no, sir. The road was long.” “Aye, it always is.” Sir Roland’s gaze flicked to Thunder, assessing him with a stableman’s practicality. “And you brought a fine beast with you. Did your father send that too, or did you steal him from a lord’s paddock on the way?” Frederick’s cheeks warmed. “He’s mine. His name is Thunder.” “Thunder.” Sir Roland repeated the word as if tasting it. “A proper name. All right then—down you come. Let’s see if you’re as steady on the ground as you are in the saddle.” Frederick swung his leg over, boots crunching in the yard’s gravel. A stable boy darted forward and took Thunder’s reins, eyes wide as he looked between squire and knight. Sir Roland leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Listen well, Frederick. In this place, you’ll learn to mind your manners, mind your blade, and mind your silence. The castle has ears where it oughtn’t.” Frederick blinked. “Silence, sir?” Sir Roland’s mouth tugged into something that was almost a smile. “You’ll understand soon enough. For now—welcome to Greystone. Try not to die in your first week. It makes the paperwork tiresome.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> Frederick guided Thunder into the stable yard, where puddles held the last of the sunset like spilled copper. A chorus of nickers greeted him from within—horses shifting, stomping, restless for evening feed. He felt suddenly small, as though the walls had drawn closer to see what kind of boy dared enter their keeping. A knight sat on a low rail near the tack room, polishing a bracer with slow, methodical strokes. His armor was well-used, the edges dulled by honest work rather than show, but the crest on his cloak was clean. When he looked up, his eyes were bright and appraising. “So you’re the new squire,” the knight said, standing in one unhurried motion. “Frederick, is it?” Frederick’s throat tightened. “Yes, sir.” “Sir Roland.” The knight inclined his head—not a bow, but a courtesy offered as one warrior to another, even if Frederick was barely old enough to shave. “You chose a good hour to arrive. The horses are fed, the men are weary, and no one is keen on shouting.” “I didn’t mean to be late,” Frederick said quickly. Sir Roland waved the apology away. “Roads don’t care for your intentions. Let me see your mount.” He stepped closer to Thunder, speaking softly—not words Frederick could catch, but a tone that made the stallion’s ears flick forward instead of back. Sir Roland ran a hand along Thunder’s neck, then checked the cinch and the tack with a practiced eye. “Not lamed. Not sweating hard. Good.” He glanced at Frederick. “Either you ride well, or you were blessed by a saint. Which is it?” Frederick managed a thin smile. “I can ride.” “We’ll test that soon,” Sir Roland said. His gaze drifted past Frederick to the looming stable doors, to the shadows between torchlight. For a heartbeat, his expression hardened—like a man who’d heard something that others hadn’t. Then the hardness vanished, replaced by a steadier warmth. “Come. I’ll have the stablemaster see Thunder settled. You’ll want food, and you’ll want a bed, and you’ll want them before Captain Brune decides to make an example of the new boy.” “An example?” Frederick asked, unease creeping in. Sir Roland’s grin was quick, almost boyish. “Only the usual. Scrubbing, hauling, drills until you forget your own name. Training is a forge. The castle isn’t gentle, Frederick—but it is honest. If you have iron in you, it will show.” He clapped Frederick once on the shoulder—heavy enough to mean it, not heavy enough to harm—and turned toward the open doors. “Welcome to Greystone. Try to keep up.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> The stables sat apart from the main keep like a patient beast itself—low, wide, and breathing steam into the cooling air. Frederick dismounted at the yard’s edge, boots sinking slightly into straw and damp earth. Thunder tossed his head, sensing new scents and strange horses. “Easy,” Frederick murmured, though his own nerves made the word unsteady. A voice answered from behind him. “You’ll want to speak like you mean it, lad. Horses know a tremble when they hear one.” Frederick turned. A knight approached with a measured stride, as if the ground belonged to him by old agreement. He wore a plain mail shirt beneath a dark surcoat, and at his belt hung a sword whose hilt was wrapped and worn smooth by years of use. His face was lined—not with age, but with weather and decisions. “Sir—” Frederick started, then stopped, unsure of the proper address. “Sir Roland,” the man supplied, stopping within arm’s length. He looked Frederick up and down: travel-stained cloak, mud at the hem, callused hands that didn’t quite match the softness of a boy’s face. “And you’re Frederick.” “Yes, sir.” Sir Roland’s eyes flicked to Thunder, then to the saddle bags. “You came light. Either you left home in a hurry or you’ve learned the first lesson of soldiering: carry only what you can run with.” Frederick hesitated. “My father said… the castle would provide the rest.” “Your father was either generous or tired of you tripping over his floors,” Sir Roland said dryly, then softened. “No offense. Fathers speak harshly when they’re proud.” Frederick didn’t know what to do with that, so he stood straighter. Sir Roland held out his hand. Frederick grasped it, feeling the strength there, the steadiness. The knight’s grip was brief, but it anchored Frederick more than he expected. “Good.” Sir Roland released him and nodded toward the stable doors. “Stablemaster Jerrit! A new arrival!” A gray-bearded man appeared, wiping his hands on his apron. Sir Roland gestured to Thunder. “See him watered and rubbed down. He’ll be used to open fields—don’t put him in with the kickers.” Jerrit grunted and took the reins with a grunt of approval. Thunder followed him, surprisingly calm. As Thunder disappeared inside, Sir Roland lowered his voice. “Before you go running to the great hall, listen. Greystone isn’t like the villages. We have rules here that aren’t written on parchment.” Frederick’s heart thudded. “What rules, sir?” Sir Roland’s gaze lifted briefly to the darkening sky above the keep, where the last light bled away behind the towers. “If you hear a bell after midnight, you stay in bed. If you see smoke from the old north watch, you don’t ask who lit it. And if you hear… anything in the stone under your feet—” He paused, as if weighing whether to finish. Frederick leaned in despite himself. “Anything, sir?” Sir Roland’s expression turned wry, but his eyes stayed serious. “Then you come find me. Welcome to the castle, Frederick. Your training begins the moment you step through these doors—whether the masters intend it or not.” </nc-section>