Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9KV2EC65DBZB8Y7EPESPZ

<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> The stables came into view like a low, long shadow clinging to the castle’s inner wall—timber beams dark with age, their rooflines breathing out the warm, sweet stink of hay and horse. Thunder tossed his head as I slowed him to a trot, hooves clopping over the cobbles slick with evening dew. A stableboy hurried out, eyes wide at the sight of a newcomer riding in so late. Before he could reach for the reins, another figure stepped from the open doorway—tall, broad-shouldered, clad in a travel-worn surcoat with a knight’s sword at his hip. His hair was iron-gray at the temples, though his posture held the unbent certainty of a man who had never learned how to shrink. “Frederick,” he said, as if tasting my name for truth. “So the castle finally spits out a fresh squire.” I dismounted too quickly, boots slipping once on the stones, and caught myself with a hand on Thunder’s neck. “Yes, sir. Frederick of—” “Of wherever you’ve survived so far,” the knight cut in, but not unkindly. His eyes, a sharp hazel, swept over me—my mud-splashed cloak, my travel-stiff shoulders, the scuffed leather of my gloves. “You’ll find survival here comes with rules.” He offered a hand. The grip was firm enough to test bone. “Sir Roland,” he said. “Master of the outer yard and keeper of the stable rotation, when the grooms pretend not to hear. You’re late.” “The road—” I began. “The road always has excuses,” Sir Roland said. Then, softer, he nodded toward Thunder. “But your mount doesn’t. That beast carried you through dusk and still stands proud. See that you reward him before you reward yourself.” A stableboy finally found his courage and stepped forward with a lead rope. Sir Roland’s gaze flicked to him. “Easy, Tom. He’ll bite only if you deserve it.” To me, he added, “If you’re wise, you’ll learn to read a horse before you try reading a man.” I swallowed, suddenly aware of how close the castle walls felt, how heavy their silence was. “Yes, Sir Roland.” He smiled—brief, like a blade catching light. “Good. First lesson, Frederick: in this castle, even the stables have ears. And some of them belong to things that don’t sleep.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> The yard behind the stables was busy despite the hour. Lanterns swung from hooks, painting the cobbles with restless gold. Horses shifted in their stalls, snorting at the unfamiliar sound of my approach. Thunder’s flanks were dark with sweat, and I could feel the tremor of weariness in him as I reined in beside a trough. I slid down and landed hard, my legs half-numb from the ride. Before I could even loosen the girth, a man’s voice cut through the clatter of buckets and the mutter of stablehands. “Hold your hands there, lad.” I looked up. A knight stood a few paces away, framed by the stable’s wide door. His armor was not ceremonial—there were scratches at the edges, dents worked half-smooth by careful hammering. A cloak hung from his shoulders, rain-faded, and at his belt a sword rested as naturally as a limb. He watched me with a steady, appraising calm. “You’re Frederick,” he said, not questioning. “Yes, sir.” He approached, boots quiet on the straw-strewn stone. He did not reach for my reins—he reached for Thunder. One gloved hand settled on the stallion’s neck, fingers splayed where the heat of the ride still lived. Thunder’s ears flicked back, then eased. “A good horse,” the knight murmured. “He trusts you enough to stand, even with strange smells around him.” His gaze lifted to mine. “That trust is borrowed. Don’t squander it.” “I won’t,” I said, surprised by the seriousness in my own voice. The knight’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Sir Roland,” he introduced himself. “The local knight, if you’re trying to sort us by titles. I’m the one you’ll curse when your arms ache from holding a shield too long.” “I… I’m honored, Sir Roland.” “Honor,” he said, and the word sounded like something heavy set down on a table. “We’ll speak of it later. For now—water him, rub him down, and see he’s stabled properly. A squire who cannot care for a horse is only a boy wearing borrowed dreams.” A stablehand hovered nearby, waiting for permission to move in. Sir Roland waved him forward. “Take Thunder. Gentle with him.” Then he turned back to me, eyes narrowing as though he could see past my travel cloak into my thoughts. “Tell me,” he said quietly, “did you see anything on the road? Anything… out of place?” The question made the yard feel suddenly colder, though the lanterns still burned. I hesitated, remembering the way the shadows had seemed to shift in the treeline at dusk. Sir Roland read the pause as easily as he’d read the horse. “We’ll talk,” he said. “After you’ve done your duty. The castle has long memories, Frederick—and so do the things that circle it.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> I guided Thunder through the inner gate and toward the stables, following the smell of hay and the low chorus of animals settling for the night. The castle loomed behind me—stone and shadow and the weight of stories I didn’t yet belong to. Near the stable doors, a lantern burned with a steady flame, throwing light across the posts where tack hung like sleeping bats. A man was waiting there, hands folded behind his back as if he had all the time in the world. He wore a knight’s surcoat over chain, but no helmet; his face was open to the air, weathered and keen-eyed. When Thunder stamped, the man didn’t flinch. He simply watched, as though measuring the rhythm of the horse’s impatience. “You ride like someone who’s been chased,” he said. I blinked. “I… I rode like someone who didn’t want to arrive after dark, sir.” “And yet you did.” The knight stepped closer. Lantern-light caught on the edge of a scar that ran from his jaw toward his ear—old, pale, neatly healed. “Frederick, isn’t it?” “Yes. Frederick.” He inclined his head a fraction. “Sir Roland. I oversee the yard drills when the captain is buried in paperwork. More importantly, I keep fools from breaking their necks in the stables.” His eyes flicked down to my saddle straps. “For example: that girth has been tightened in haste. If Thunder had decided to buck at the gate, you’d have met the stones.” Heat rose in my face. “I didn’t mean—” “Meaning doesn’t hold you on a horse.” Sir Roland reached out and, with practiced ease, checked the strap himself. He did it quickly, like a man who could secure a saddle in the dark while arrows fell. Thunder blew out a breath and lowered his head, accepting the touch. “You’ve got spirit,” Sir Roland said at last, straightening. “And you’ve got fatigue. Both make boys reckless.” “I’m not a boy,” I said before I could stop myself. Silence settled. A stable cat slipped between our legs, tail high, entirely unimpressed by my declaration. Sir Roland studied me, then gave a slow, almost thoughtful nod. “No,” he agreed. “Not anymore. Not if you’re here.” He gestured toward the open stall nearest the door. “Stable him there, where he’ll be warm. Then wash the road from your hands before you touch anything else in this castle.” “Why?” Sir Roland’s gaze drifted past me, toward the dark line of the outer wall and the fields beyond. “Because the road carries more than mud,” he said. “And sometimes it brings things that want to be invited inside.” A gust of wind pressed against the stable doors, making the lantern flame bend. Thunder shifted uneasily. Sir Roland’s voice softened, but it did not lose its edge. “Welcome to the castle, Frederick. You’ll learn quickly here: there are duties everyone sees… and duties that keep the night from getting in.” </nc-section>