Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9M7HVAZRYMV2QY3JV2SPQ

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: A Measured Welcome" data-color="red"> The stables lay just inside the outer yard, a long, low building of timber and dark stone where the air was warm with breath and hay. Frederick swung down from Thunder’s saddle with more eagerness than grace, boots striking the packed earth. He patted the stallion’s neck as if the touch might steady his own pulse. “Easy,” murmured a voice—calm, unhurried, and close. Frederick turned to find a knight standing at the stable doors, half in shadow, half in the last light of sunset. His armor was not the bright parade steel Frederick had imagined when he’d dreamed of castles as a child, but worn and practical, the edges softened by use. A scar cut cleanly through one eyebrow, giving his gaze a permanent, questioning tilt. “Frederick of Westmere?” the knight asked. “Yes, sir,” Frederick answered, straightening so quickly his spine protested. The knight’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Sir Roland. I keep the yard in order and the squires from breaking their necks. If you’re wise, you’ll learn both trades.” Frederick swallowed. “I—thank you, Sir Roland. I’ve come to begin my training.” “So I’ve heard.” Sir Roland stepped closer, eyes flicking from Frederick to Thunder with a practiced appraisal. “First lesson, then. A squire who leaves his mount to someone else’s hands learns laziness before he learns honor. Bring him in. Let him know this place is safe.” Frederick nodded, leading Thunder toward the open doors. As they crossed the threshold, the stallion snorted, ears pricking at the unfamiliar sounds—the clink of tack, the soft thud of hooves, the low rumble of other horses settling for the evening. Sir Roland watched the animal with the seriousness of a man judging a weapon. “He’s spirited,” he said. “You’ll need a steadier seat if you mean to ride in armor someday.” “I will learn,” Frederick promised, though the words felt like a vow made to more than the knight. Sir Roland’s gaze returned to him. “Good. We’ll see if you keep it. Tonight, you’ll sleep above the tack room. At dawn, you’ll be in the yard before the first bell.” He paused, then added, softer, “And Frederick—don’t let the castle’s stones fool you. They remember things. Best to listen when they start talking.” Frederick frowned, unsure if it was a warning or a jest, but Sir Roland was already turning away, leaving the stable’s warm breath and the weight of those words behind him. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Friendly Hand and a Sharp Eye" data-color="green"> Frederick had barely loosened Thunder’s girth when a shadow fell across the straw. He glanced up, expecting a groom, but the man who approached carried himself with the quiet authority of someone used to being obeyed. “Hold him there,” the stranger said, reaching for the reins with an ease that made Thunder’s ears flick but not flatten. “He’s reading you.” Frederick blinked. “Reading me, sir?” “Aye. Horses and men do it the same way—by scent, by tone, by what you’re afraid to admit.” The man’s gauntlet closed around the leather, steady as a post. “You’re Frederick.” Frederick’s cheeks warmed. “Yes.” The stranger nodded once. “Sir Roland. Local knight, master of this yard, and unwilling babysitter of any boy who thinks a castle makes him invincible.” That earned a breath of laughter from Frederick before he could stop it. Sir Roland’s stern face softened into something almost kind. “Good,” Sir Roland said. “Humor means you’re not entirely made of nerves.” He glanced toward the castle proper, where the last light bled off the stone like spilled wine. “You picked a strange season to come. The air’s been… unsettled.” Frederick followed his gaze. The yard looked ordinary—buckets, barrels, a pile of split logs—yet the silence between sounds felt thick, as if the world held its breath. “I only came because the summons came,” Frederick said carefully. “My father said it was an honor.” Sir Roland’s smile faded at the edges. “Honor, yes. Also necessity.” He handed the reins back and tapped the stallion’s shoulder. “Walk him in. Slow. Let him see the other mounts.” Frederick led Thunder into the stable aisle. The horses shifted in their stalls, snorting greetings and warnings. The warm smell of oats and leather wrapped around him like a cloak. Sir Roland moved alongside, boots whispering in straw. “Tell me,” he said, voice low enough that only Frederick could hear, “did you notice anything on the road? Any ash in the wind? Any birds flying the wrong way?” Frederick hesitated. He remembered the crows—too many of them—circling a distant ridge as if something had died there, though he’d smelled no rot. He remembered, too, a moment when Thunder had balked, refusing to cross a patch of ground that looked perfectly harmless. “I… I don’t know,” Frederick admitted. Sir Roland studied him a heartbeat longer, then nodded as if filing the answer away. “All right. Then we start with simple things. Brush him. Feed him. Learn his moods.” He paused beside an empty stall and pointed. “This is yours to keep clean. If you can’t manage straw and dung, you’ve no business managing a sword.” Frederick squared his shoulders. “I can manage it.” Sir Roland’s expression turned wry. “We’ll see. And Frederick—if anyone tells you the old stories are only stories, you come find me. I prefer my squires alive.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: Steel, Straw, and a Test" data-color="blue"> Thunder stamped once, impatient with the unfamiliar yard, and Frederick tightened his grip on the reins as though strength alone could translate into control. He was still tugging at a knot in the tack when a voice cut cleanly through the stable noise. “You’ll tear the leather if you fight it like that.” Frederick jerked his head up. A knight stood near the water trough, arms folded, helm tucked beneath one arm. His cloak was dusted with road grit, and his mail caught the dying sun in dull, hard rings. “I’m—sorry, sir,” Frederick said, fingers freezing on the strap. The knight crossed the few paces between them with the unhurried confidence of a man who did not need to hurry. “Don’t apologize. Correct it.” He reached out, fingers deft, and in two quick motions the knot loosened as if it had never existed. “There. Leather’s like a promise—pull too hard and it snaps.” Frederick stared, equal parts impressed and stung. “Thank you.” The knight’s gaze swept over him, taking in travel-worn boots, the way Frederick stood half a step behind Thunder instead of at his shoulder, the anxious set of his jaw. “Frederick of Westmere,” he said, as if tasting the name for truth. “I’m Sir Roland.” Frederick straightened. “Sir Roland. I reported to the gate. They told me to—” “To find the stables, yes.” Sir Roland’s mouth tightened. “That’s where squires begin. The sword comes later. First you learn what it is to be responsible for a life that isn’t your own.” Thunder snorted, tossing his head. Sir Roland didn’t flinch. Instead, he placed one steady hand against the stallion’s neck and spoke so softly Frederick barely caught it. Thunder’s ears flicked forward; the agitation drained from his stance like water from a broken cup. Frederick frowned. “He listens to you.” “He listens to calm.” Sir Roland released Thunder and finally looked Frederick fully in the face. “Show me your hands.” Frederick hesitated, then held them out. The skin was unbroken—no blisters yet, no calluses beyond a boy’s farm work. Sir Roland grunted. “New to the work. Good. That means you haven’t learned bad habits.” He nodded toward the tack room door. “Inside. Grab a brush. If you can groom him without making him hate you, you might have the making of a squire.” Frederick took a step, then paused. “Sir—why is it so important? The grooming. The stables.” Sir Roland’s eyes went briefly to the castle wall, where a line of old stone jutted like a broken tooth. “Because the castle keeps secrets, and secrets feed on neglect,” he said. “Here, at least, what you fail to do is honest. A dirty stall, a loose shoe, a frightened horse—those things tell on you immediately.” He opened the tack room and motioned Frederick inside. “Now—brush him until his coat shines. Then I’ll decide if you’re ready to meet anyone beyond straw and hooves.” Frederick swallowed his nerves, stepped into the scent of oiled leather and cedar, and reached for the brush—aware, in a way he hadn’t been a moment ago, that this greeting was not merely courtesy. It was a test. </nc-section>