Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9QF9S0F5QD0Q0V3MVXRCA

<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> Thunder’s hooves drummed the packed earth as Frederick reined in near the stables, where the air was thick with the familiar mix of hay, leather, and warm animal breath. Grooms moved like shadows in the last light, brushing down sweating mounts and calling soft, steady words that calmed more than the horses. A man stepped out from the stable’s wide doorway as if he had been waiting there all along. He was a knight—no mistaking it—though he wore no helm. His hair, iron-gray at the temples, was tied back, and his surcoat bore the castle’s sigil stitched in dark thread. The way he stood made the world feel slightly smaller around him: shoulders squared, boots planted, gaze clear and appraising. Frederick slid from the saddle, a little too quickly, and nearly tangled his foot in the stirrup. He caught himself, cheeks warming, and reached for Thunder’s reins as if he’d meant the whole clumsy dismount. “Easy,” the knight said, voice neither unkind nor amused. He came closer, taking in Frederick’s travel-dusted cloak and the worn edge of his gloves. “You’ll have the horse thinking you’re fleeing a battle already.” Frederick straightened. “I’m Frederick, sir. I’ve come to begin my training.” The knight’s eyes lingered on the boy’s hands—callused in the wrong places for a court page, the marks of farmwork or honest labor. Then his gaze lifted, and something like recognition flickered there, quickly masked. “Sir Roland,” he said. “Master of stables in practice, though my title says otherwise.” He reached for Thunder’s neck, letting the stallion sniff him before giving a firm, confident pat. Thunder accepted it, ears relaxing. That, somehow, eased Frederick’s tight chest more than any greeting. Sir Roland’s attention returned to him. “The castle’s a hungry place, Frederick. It eats boys whole and spits out men—if they learn quickly.” He nodded toward the stable doors. “Bring your mount inside. We’ll see him watered and fed. Then we’ll see what you’re made of.” Frederick swallowed, gripping the reins a bit tighter. “Yes, Sir Roland.” As they walked beneath the timbered arch of the stable, Frederick thought he heard it—a low, distant sound, like a sigh carried through stone. He paused, but Sir Roland kept moving, unbothered. “Don’t let the castle’s noises trouble you,” the knight said, not looking back. “Old walls remember too much. They mutter.” Frederick followed, though the hair at the back of his neck remained lifted, as if something unseen had just taken interest in his name. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> By the time Frederick reached the stables, dusk had bled into the yard, turning the cobbles dark and slick-looking though no rain had fallen. Lanterns were being lit one by one, their flames tiny gold tongues that pushed back the gathering night. He guided his horse toward an empty hitching post, trying to look as though he belonged. The stablehands glanced at him only briefly—boys and men alike with straw in their hair and the brisk, practiced movements of those who had little time to spare. “Hold there.” The command cut through the yard cleanly. Frederick turned and saw a knight approaching from the shadow of the stable wall. He wore a chain shirt beneath a travel-stained cloak, and the pommel of his sword caught the lanternlight like a cold eye. His hands were bare, but there were old scars across the knuckles—marks of years spent gripping reins and steel. Frederick bowed, awkward in the saddle. “Sir—” “Sir Roland,” the knight supplied, and stopped close enough that Frederick could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Not old, Frederick thought, but seasoned. “And you must be the new squire they sent word of.” Frederick’s heart thumped. “Yes, sir. Frederick.” Sir Roland studied him with the frankness of someone judging a horse at market. His gaze moved from Frederick’s posture to the straps of his pack, to the horse’s foam-flecked flank. “You rode hard,” Sir Roland said. It wasn’t praise or rebuke—just fact. “Either you’re eager, or you’re running.” “I’m eager,” Frederick answered quickly. Then, after a beat, more softly: “I wasn’t sure I’d be welcomed.” A stablehand snorted somewhere behind them, but Sir Roland’s expression didn’t change. He reached up and took the reins with steady confidence. “The castle welcomes what it needs. Whether it keeps you—that depends on you.” Frederick slid down, managing not to stumble this time. He held out the reins, but Sir Roland didn’t pass them to a groom at once. Instead, he led the horse a few steps, checking its gait, its breathing, the condition of its hooves as though the animal’s story could be read like ink. “You chose a good mount,” Sir Roland said at last. “Or someone chose it for you.” Frederick hesitated. “My father… said it would carry me where I was meant to go.” Sir Roland paused, and for the briefest moment his eyes softened—like a door almost opened, then shut again. “Then let’s hope your father was wise.” He angled his head toward the stable doors. “Come. You’ll stable your horse yourself. A squire who cannot care for a mount is a squire who cannot care for his own life.” He started walking, then added without looking back, “And keep your voice low once you’re inside. Horses spook easy—and there are other things in this castle that listen.” Frederick followed, the yard behind them fading into lanternlit blur, and he couldn’t tell whether the chill in his spine came from the night air… or from the way Sir Roland said the word listen. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> Frederick found the stables by sound before he found them by sight—snorts and nickers, the soft thud of hooves on straw, and the steady scrape of a brush along a horse’s flank. The stableyard lay to the east of the main keep, tucked behind a low stone wall where the wind carried the smell of hay and dung instead of cooking fires. He brought his horse to a walk and searched for a place that looked meant for him. “New hands always hesitate there,” a voice said, wry as a whetstone. A knight leaned against a post near the stable doors, arms folded as though he owned the space by right of patience alone. He was broad through the shoulders, his surcoat unadorned except for a small, embroidered crest at the collar—subtle, like a secret. His boots were mud-splattered, and a single leather glove hung from his belt beside a ring of keys. Frederick swallowed and dismounted. “I’m Frederick. I—” “—have come to begin your training,” the knight finished for him, pushing away from the post. He crossed the yard in long, unhurried strides, eyes on Frederick’s face as if measuring more than height and build. “They’ve been expecting you. Or fearing you. Hard to tell with this lot.” Frederick blinked. “Fearing me, sir?” The knight’s mouth twitched. “Sir Roland,” he said, ignoring the question with the ease of long practice. “If you’re going to be a squire here, you’ll learn quickly: most people fear what they don’t understand. And most people understand less than they think.” He reached for the horse’s bridle, not snatching it, but offering his hand for the animal to scent first. The horse huffed, then allowed the contact. Sir Roland’s touch was sure—someone who spoke in the language of animals as fluently as in orders. “What’s his name?” Sir Roland asked. Frederick hesitated, then decided there was no shame in honesty. “Thunder.” Sir Roland gave a single nod, as if he approved of the name’s weight. “Then Thunder will be stabled in the north row. The other horses won’t pick fights there.” He glanced toward the open stable doors, where lanternlight spilled like honey onto the straw. Frederick gathered his pack. “Thank you, Sir Roland.” Sir Roland’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t thank me yet. The first night in a castle is a test. The second night is worse.” He started leading Thunder forward, then paused and looked back at Frederick as though considering whether to say more. Finally, he did. “You hear stories about dragons?” Sir Roland asked casually, as if asking about weather. Frederick’s throat tightened. “Only… tales.” “Good,” Sir Roland said, and the word sounded like a warning. “Keep them as tales for as long as you can.” He continued toward the stable, keys at his belt clinking softly. “Now—show me you can lay a bed of straw properly. If you can’t manage that, the sword will eat you alive.” Frederick followed him into the warm, shadowed interior, where the horses’ eyes shone in the lanternlight like watchful stars, and the castle beyond the stable walls felt suddenly very far away. </nc-section>