Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9GHQVKFEY8KHY2W3ZMYYZ

<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> Thunder’s hooves struck the packed earth of the stable-yard and slowed to a prancing walk. Frederick slid from the saddle with stiff legs and a sudden awareness of how small he was beneath the castle’s looming shadow. The air here was warm with hay and horse-sweat, sharp with iron from the farrier’s anvil. “Easy there,” a voice called, firm as a command on a battlefield. Frederick turned. A knight stood near the stable doors, half in the amber light of the setting sun. His mail was unadorned but well kept, and the long surcoat over it bore the kingdom’s colors. A narrow scar cut through one eyebrow, giving his gaze a permanent, measuring slant. “You must be the new squire,” the knight said, approaching with an easy stride that still somehow sounded like marching. “Frederick, isn’t it?” Frederick straightened as though an invisible cord had snapped taut along his spine. “Yes, sir. Frederick of—” He caught himself, uncertain whether his village name mattered within these walls. The knight’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Roland,” he said, offering a gauntleted hand. “Sir Roland. I keep the yard in order and the young ones alive long enough to become useful.” Frederick took the offered hand. The grip was hard and callused, the kind that did not waste strength but had plenty to spend. “I’m honored, sir.” “Honor is a fine thing,” Sir Roland said, releasing him and looking Thunder over in one slow, practiced sweep. “But it won’t tighten a girth strap or mend a careless rein. You rode well enough to reach us without breaking your neck. That’s a start.” Thunder snorted, tossing his head. Sir Roland stepped closer, not flinching, and laid a steady hand on the stallion’s shoulder. The horse quieted as if recognizing authority. “You’ll see to him first,” the knight went on. “Water, brush, check his hooves. A knight’s mount is half his life, and a squire’s work begins with what keeps a knight standing.” Frederick nodded quickly, then hesitated. Beyond the stable doors, the castle seemed to breathe—stone and torchlight, distant voices, the promise of everything he had dreamed and feared. Sir Roland followed his gaze and made a low sound of approval. “Eager. Good. But listen, Frederick: castles are full of lessons that will cut you if you grab them bare-handed.” Frederick swallowed. “What sort of lessons, sir?” Sir Roland’s eyes flicked toward the darkening fields beyond the walls, where the last band of sunlight bled out behind the treeline. “The sort that aren’t taught in the practice yard. You’ll learn those soon enough. For now—” He clapped Frederick once on the shoulder, not unkindly. “Welcome to the castle. Don’t make me regret it.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> By the time Frederick guided Thunder into the stable-yard, dusk had settled like a cloak over the castle grounds. Lanterns had been lit along the walls, their flames wavering in the wind and painting the cobbles with trembling gold. A man was waiting near the hitching posts, as if he had been expecting this exact moment. His armor was simpler than Frederick had imagined a knight’s would be—no jeweled plates, no polished vanity—just well-fitted mail, leather straps worn soft by long use, and a sword whose hilt had been wrapped and rewrapped until the grip had the look of a thing that had survived. “You’re late,” the man said, though his tone carried no anger. It was the way one might remark that rain had come. Frederick blinked. “Late, sir? I… I rode as fast as I could.” The knight studied him for a heartbeat, then the sternness eased into something closer to amusement. “Good. That’s the correct answer.” He stepped forward and bowed his head slightly—only slightly, the bare minimum of courtesy from a man who was used to giving orders. “Sir Roland,” he introduced himself. “Local knight, keeper of these stables when the grooms can’t manage their own tongues.” Frederick swung down from Thunder’s back and nearly stumbled on landing. He caught himself, cheeks warming, and forced his shoulders square. “Frederick. Squire—at least, I hope to be.” Sir Roland’s gaze dropped to Frederick’s hands, then to the way he held the reins. “Hope is for prayers,” he said. “Being a squire is for work. Let’s see if you can do the second.” He moved to Thunder, speaking in a low voice Frederick couldn’t quite catch. The stallion lowered his head as if the knight had offered a secret. Sir Roland ran a quick palm over the horse’s neck, then checked the cinch with a single tug that told Frederick how much practice lived in the knight’s bones. “Not a bad mount,” Sir Roland said. “But you’ve ridden him hard.” His eyes lifted to Frederick again. “You can tell me why.” Frederick hesitated, hearing the tremor in his own breath. “I wanted to arrive before nightfall, sir. My father said—” He cut himself off, suddenly aware that “my father said” might mean little in a castle. Sir Roland watched him a moment longer, then nodded once, as if placing Frederick into a category in his mind. “Fair. Night makes fools of men who think they can see in it.” Somewhere deeper in the stables, a horse stamped and whickered. The smell of straw and oiled leather filled Frederick’s lungs and steadied him. Sir Roland hooked a thumb toward the stable doors. “There’s water and brush inside. You’ll tend your mount first, then report to the yard. If you can’t care for a horse, you can’t care for steel.” Frederick nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.” As he led Thunder toward the shadowed entrance, Sir Roland added, quieter now, “And Frederick?” Frederick looked back. The knight’s face had gone thoughtful, his eyes reflecting lanternlight like small, wary flames. “Keep your ears open in this place. Castles have their own weather. Sometimes the storm comes from inside the walls.” Frederick’s throat tightened. “I will, sir.” Sir Roland inclined his head again, just the smallest acknowledgment. “Good. Then welcome.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> The stable-yard was louder than Frederick expected—a constant chorus of clinking tack, soft snorts, and the murmur of men who spoke to horses as if they were old friends. Thunder’s shoes rang on the stone as Frederick guided him through the gate, wide-eyed at the bustle. A knight leaned against a post beside the main stable doors, arms folded, watching the yard like a hawk watches a field. His helm was off, revealing cropped dark hair threaded with a little gray at the temples. His expression suggested he had seen a hundred boys arrive with bright dreams and dull sense. Frederick drew Thunder to a stop and started to dismount as neatly as he could manage. “You’ve got decent balance,” the knight observed, voice carrying easily over the yard noise. “Or you’re too stubborn to fall. Which is it?” Frederick straightened, surprised into honesty. “Both, sir.” The knight’s lips curved—this time a real smile, quick as a blade flashing from a sheath. He pushed away from the post and approached. “That’ll serve you. I’m Sir Roland.” Frederick’s heart gave a startled leap. Here—right here—was the first knight to speak to him since he’d passed under the gate. “Frederick,” he said. “New squire.” “New trouble,” Sir Roland corrected mildly, then reached out and took Thunder’s reins with the casual certainty of someone who had never once asked a horse’s permission. Thunder tossed his head, testing, but Sir Roland only murmured a few calm words and the stallion settled. Frederick watched, half impressed, half embarrassed. “He doesn’t always listen to strangers.” Sir Roland glanced at him sideways. “Horses listen to what they believe. Right now, he believes I won’t let him make a fool of either of us.” He gave the reins back, then tapped Frederick’s chest lightly with two fingers—an odd, almost playful gesture. “Do you believe that about yourself?” Frederick opened his mouth, then closed it. His confidence, so sturdy on the open road, felt thinner inside these walls. Sir Roland’s tone softened, the edge turning into something steadier. “You don’t have to answer. You just have to learn.” He motioned toward the stable doors. “Put him up properly. Water, feed, brush. Check for rubbed skin under the tack. A squire who ignores small injuries learns about big ones the hard way.” “Yes, sir,” Frederick said, eager to prove he could be useful. As Frederick led Thunder forward, Sir Roland walked alongside him for a few steps, their shadows stretching long across the yard. “Your master will likely be assigned after the evening meal,” the knight said. “Until then, you’re mine to keep busy.” Frederick’s stomach tightened. “Busy how?” Sir Roland’s eyes flicked toward the practice yard where wooden dummies stood like silent sentries in the fading light. “If your arms can lift a bucket, they can lift a training blade. If your pride can survive a bruised shoulder, it might survive the rest of this life.” Frederick managed a small nod. “I understand.” Sir Roland stopped at the stable threshold and let Frederick go on alone. “Good,” he said, voice firm again, the friendly warmth tucked away like a weapon. “Welcome to the castle, Frederick. Don’t mistake these stables for safety. Even here, you’ll learn what it means to serve something larger than yourself.” </nc-section>