Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9QJDS2EN419JWX1XNKHE6

<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> As I passed beneath the arch of the outer gate, Thunder slowed to a trot on the packed dirt of the courtyard. The smell of hay, sweat, and oiled leather rolled in from the stables to my right, mingling with the distant clang of steel from the training yard. A tall man in a mail shirt stepped out from the shadow of the stable doors, wiping his hands on a worn leather cloth. His hair, once black, was streaked with iron-gray, and a thin white scar traced the line of his jaw. "You ride like you mean to outrun the sun, boy," he called, his voice rough but not unkind. I swung down from the saddle, my legs stiff from the long journey. "Frederick of Ashcombe, my lord. Reporting for service." The man’s mouth twitched at the corner, something like a smile fighting its way through the weathered lines of his face. "I’m no ‘lord,’ lad. Just a knight who’s lived long enough to regret it." He stepped closer and offered his hand. "Sir Roland. You’ll be under my charge while you’re here." His grip was firm, the calluses on his palm like old bark. He looked me over as a horse trader might inspect a new colt—checking for soundness, for spirit, for flaws not easily seen. "You’re younger than they said," he muttered. "But the king wants squires, and the times want swords." His gaze met mine, suddenly sharp. "Tell me, Frederick of Ashcombe—do you know why you’ve truly been called here?" My throat tightened. I glanced at Thunder as a stable boy led him away, and for the first time since leaving home, I wondered if I’d made a mistake. "I was told," I began carefully, "that the crown is mustering men for the northern campaign. That you needed more squires—" Sir Roland snorted. "We always need more squires. We need fodder for the charge and hands to pick up the fallen. But that’s not why the king sends for farm boys who ride like the wind and carry old blood in their veins." I blinked. "Old… blood?" His eyes narrowed, studying my face as though searching for something time had tried to bury. "Come," he said at last, turning toward the stable. "We’ll talk inside. No sense letting all the castle hear why you’re really here. Not when dragons have begun to stir in the north." The word hung in the air behind him like smoke. Dragons. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> The courtyard opened around me in a blur of noise and color. Grooms hurried past with armfuls of straw, a pair of soldiers argued over dice near the well, and the low murmur of voices drifted from the barracks hall. But my attention locked on the stables—the long, timbered building hugging the inner wall, where the scent of horses and fresh hay beckoned like a promise of rest. I guided Thunder toward it, patting his neck. "Almost there, boy. You’ve earned a good rubdown." Before we reached the doors, a figure stepped out from the dim interior. He wore a simple brown surcoat over chainmail, the fabric stained by use rather than ornamented by pride. His sword hung low and easy at his hip, as though it had grown there, like another limb. "That’ll be far enough, lad," he said, raising a hand. I reined Thunder in and bowed awkwardly from the saddle. "My apologies, ser. I was told to report to the castellan or the master-at-arms upon arrival. I—" He chuckled, the sound deep and tired. "You report to whoever stops you first. Lucky for you, that’s me today." He stepped closer, studying Thunder’s legs, his flanks, his hooves. Only after he’d examined my horse did he look up at me. "You ride him hard," the man observed. "The road was long," I replied, bristling a little. "We left Ashcombe before dawn." "Ashcombe, is it?" His eyes softened for a heartbeat. "Fine orchards there. Better cider." I blinked. "You’ve been?" "Once," he said shortly, then gestured to my saddle. "Down you come. You look ready to fall off, and I’ve no wish to scrape a broken squire off the cobbles. Name?" "Frederick, ser. Frederick of Ashcombe." He nodded, as though confirming some quiet suspicion. "I’m Sir Roland. Local knight, such as that still means anything. I train the boys who come through those gates dreaming of glory." I slid to the ground, my boots striking the earth with a jolt that ran up my legs. "Then—I suppose I’m one of your boys now." He snorted. "We’ll see what you are soon enough." A stable lad appeared to take Thunder’s reins, and Sir Roland watched the exchange with a hawk’s patience. Only when the horse was led away did he speak again. "You’ll want to remember something, Frederick of Ashcombe," he said. "This castle doesn’t care about your dreams. It cares what you can do when the alarm bells ring." "I intend to do my duty," I said, squaring my shoulders. "Everyone intends it," Sir Roland replied. "Right up until they see their first dragonfire." The word sent a chill along my spine. "You… have dragons here?" He gave me a long, measured look. "Not yet. But the king’s ravens bring blacker news by the day. That’s why we’re training double. That’s why they’re sending us boys who ride hard and don’t yet know enough to be afraid." He turned toward the training yard, jerking his head for me to follow. "Come on, lad. Let’s find out if you’ll be a knight—or ash on the wind." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> The last light of the sun spilled across the courtyard, gilding the castle stones and turning the dust in the air to drifting motes of gold. I rode Thunder toward the stables, where the scent of hay and warm leather rose to meet us like a memory of home. Before I could dismount, a man emerged from the shadowed doorway. He was not young, but neither had age softened him. Every line of his lean face looked carved by wind and war, and his eyes—pale as winter sky—missed nothing. "You’ll lame that horse if you keep him blowing like that," he said, voice even. "Walk him before you hand him over. He’s done you no wrong." I flushed, suddenly ashamed of the foam on Thunder’s neck. "Yes, ser. Of course." I guided Thunder in a slow circle, letting him cool, feeling the man’s gaze on me. When at last I slid from the saddle, boots thudding on the packed earth, the stranger stepped forward and took hold of the bridle with practiced ease. "Frederick, isn’t it?" he asked. I started. "How did you—" He tapped a finger against his temple. "There’s only one boy due from Ashcombe today, and you’ve the look of someone who’s never slept within stone walls before. I’m Sir Roland. This is my stable, my yard, and for as long as you wear that tabard, my responsibility." He nodded toward the faded emblem on my chest—the royal stag, barely visible in the failing light. "A pleasure to meet you, Sir Roland," I managed, bowing. "I’m ready to begin my duties." "Are you?" His gaze swept over me: the road dust on my boots, the blister on my sword hand, the stiffness in my shoulders. "You’re tired, hungry, and your gear’s seen better days. That tells me you’re stubborn enough to ride hard, but not yet wise enough to pace yourself. We can fix that." He handed Thunder’s reins to a waiting stable boy, murmuring instructions I couldn’t quite hear. The horse snorted once, then allowed himself to be led away. "You’ll have a bunk in the east barracks, third floor," Sir Roland said, turning back to me. "You’ll rise before dawn, eat what you’re given, and learn faster than the bruises can teach you. You will speak when spoken to, listen when corrected, and keep your sword clean even if nothing else is." "I understand, ser," I said, though the words felt small beneath the weight of the castle walls. He studied my face a moment longer, as though searching for something only he knew to look for. "They didn’t tell you why you were sent here, did they?" he asked quietly. "I—" I hesitated. "I was told the kingdom was mustering. That the north grows… unsettled." A shadow crossed his expression. "Unsettled is one word for it." He glanced toward the distant, darkening line of the northern hills, visible just beyond the outer wall. "Something old is moving up there," Sir Roland said. "The king thinks we might yet stand against it. So he sends me boys, and I try to turn them into shields." "Shields against what?" The question slipped out before I could stop it. He looked back at me, and for the first time, I saw fear—not for himself, but for something larger, heavier. "Against dragons, lad," he replied. "Or whatever woke them." The word echoed in my chest like the tolling of a bell. Dragons. I had heard tales by the hearth, of course—stories to frighten children and thrill drunkards. But standing there in the fading light, with Sir Roland’s calm gaze upon me and the castle walls at my back, the word no longer sounded like a story. It sounded like the reason I was here. </nc-section>