Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9ZQ969FFARP2MQNM6KRH4

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: Stable Greetings — Version 1" data-color="red"> As I passed under the shadow of the gatehouse, the thunder of hooves faded to a muted clop on cobblestone. A groom in a roughspun tunic hurried forward, hand already raised to take Thunder’s reins, but another voice cut across the courtyard before he reached me. “Let him alone, Tom. A horse knows when his rider’s not ready to let go.” I turned in the saddle. The man striding toward the stables wore mail that had seen more than parades. The links were dulled by use, a few rings mended with darker steel, and his surcoat—once a brilliant crimson—had been faded by sun and stained by journeys I could only guess at. He moved with the unhurried confidence of someone who knew he had nothing to prove. “Frederick of Hollowmere, isn’t it?” he said, stopping beside Thunder’s shoulder. His gaze swept over me: my travel-worn cloak, my father’s old sword hanging a little too low on my hip. His eyes were a clear grey, keen and appraising, but not unkind. “You sit him well. That’s a good sign.” “Yes, sir,” I managed, then flushed. “I mean—yes, my lord.” He huffed in quiet amusement. “I’ve been called worse. Sir Roland will do.” He rested a gloved hand on Thunder’s neck, and the stallion’s ears flicked forward, the animal’s great chest loosening in a contented sigh. “They told me you’d be coming before first frost. You cut it close.” “I came as quickly as I could,” I said. “The roads from Hollowmere—” “—are mud and thieves and broken wheels,” he finished for me. “You’re here. That’s what matters.” He glanced toward the stables, where the last light of the setting sun painted the open doors in gold. The smell of hay and horse and leather drifted out, familiar and comforting. “Dismount,” Sir Roland said. “If you’re to train here, you’ll muck stalls before you polish armor. Best you learn where the work is done.” I swung my leg over Thunder’s back and slid down, boots hitting the ground with a thud that jolted up my spine. For a heartbeat I simply stood there, hand on the saddle, feeling the weight of the castle walls looming at my back, feeling the future pressing in from all sides. Sir Roland watched me, as if weighing something unseen. “Tell me, Frederick,” he said at last, his voice quieter. “Did you come to be a knight of stories…or of truth?” I blinked. “I don’t understand.” “You will.” He gave Thunder’s neck a final pat and nodded toward the stable doors. “Come along. The truth always starts in places like this.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: Among Horses and Steel — Version 2" data-color="green"> The courtyard narrowed as I led Thunder toward the stables, the towering stone walls closing in on either side. Lanterns were being lit along the inner walkways, their flames shivering in the evening breeze. The scent of horses grew stronger—sweat and hay, leather and oil—a sharp, earthy smell that settled into my lungs like something permanent. “Mind his temper near strangers,” I warned the boy who moved to take Thunder’s reins. “He bites.” “So do most things worth trusting.” The new voice belonged to a man half in shadow, leaning against a stable post. He pushed away from it as we approached, stepping into the lantern light. He wore no helm, only a coif of ring mail that glimmered like fish scales around his neck. A well-kept beard traced a careful line along his jaw, streaked here and there with silver. A faded blue tabard hung over his armor, bearing the rearing griffin of the king, claws dulled by the wear of years. His eyes were the color of old iron, and when they settled on me I straightened without thinking. “You must be Frederick,” he said. “You have that Hollowmere look.” I swallowed. “Yes, sir.” My voice sounded younger than I wanted it to. He gave a short nod. “I’m Sir Roland. The ‘local knight,’ as they call me in the hall, as though war and wolves know or care about borders.” A wry twist touched his mouth. “You’ll answer to me while you’re here.” Thunder tossed his head, snorting. Sir Roland stepped up beside him, laying a firm hand along the stallion’s cheek. The great animal went still, ears pricking forward, as if some wordless agreement passed between man and beast. “Strong horse,” Sir Roland murmured. “He’ll do. But I’m less interested in his strength than yours, Frederick.” He looked at my hands—blistered from the road, wrapped around the reins a little too tightly. “Ever cared for a warhorse before?” “I’ve groomed our plow mare since I was eight,” I said quickly. “And old Master Heron’s nag when he was ill. I know how to feed and water and brush, and I can shoe in a pinch if there’s no farrier.” “Good.” He nodded once to the stable boy. “Take Thunder to the end stall, Tom. Clean straw, no more than half a measure of grain. He’s warm from the ride.” As the boy led Thunder away, a sudden ache opened in my chest, as if I were watching my last piece of home disappear into the shadows. Sir Roland seemed to notice. “You’ll see him again before dawn,” he said. “Horses at this castle are tended before the sun’s up and before it goes down. You’ll rise with them and sleep after them. If you had grand ideas about feasts and songs, best set them aside.” “I came to train as a knight,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I didn’t expect it to be easy.” “Good.” His gaze held mine for a long moment, measuring. “You’ll need that stubbornness.” From somewhere deeper in the stables, a horse screamed—a high, furious sound that made the hair prickle on my arms. Sir Roland’s head turned, and something sharp flashed behind his eyes. “Come,” he said, starting toward the sound. “There are things steel can’t quiet, boy. You’ll learn that, if you last.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: First Impressions — Version 3" data-color="blue"> Thunder’s hooves slipped from stone to packed earth as we passed beneath the low arch into the stable yard. The world immediately changed. The echoing clamor of the outer courtyard dulled; here there was only the muffled thud of hooves, the soft rustle of straw, the quiet murmur of stable hands at work. I swung my leg over to dismount, but a firm hand caught Thunder’s bridle. “Easy, lad. Let him stand. He’s carried you far.” The man who’d taken the reins moved with the easy familiarity of someone born among horses. He gave Thunder a quick once-over—flanks, legs, foam at the bit—then looked up at me. He was not as tall as I’d imagined a knight would be, but he had the sort of presence that filled the space around him all the same. His hair was cropped short, more practical than proud, and a thin scar carved a pale line from his left eyebrow to his cheek. A sword hung at his side, its hilt plain, the leather grip darkened by years of use. “Frederick?” he asked. “Yes,” I said, sliding awkwardly to the ground. My boots sank slightly into the churned earth. “Frederick of Hollowmere, sir.” He nodded. “I am Sir Roland of Brookwatch. This is my yard, my stables, and for as long as you’re under this roof, my rules.” He offered his hand, not in the grand manner of the court, but like a man greeting another worker. I took it, feeling the calluses against my palm. “You rode hard to get here.” “The letter said to arrive before the first snows,” I replied. “I didn’t want to miss my chance.” “Chance?” A quick grin flickered across his face, there and gone again. “That’s not what we call it in the barracks. But we’ll see.” He released my hand and turned back to Thunder, running his palm along the stallion’s neck. Thunder shivered, then relaxed, leaning slightly into the touch. “Good head, good lungs,” Sir Roland said. “Not bred in these parts. Your father sent his best.” I swallowed. “He thought it would…help my prospects.” “A fine horse can’t swing a sword for you, Frederick. All he tells me is that your family is willing to bleed for your future. That matters.” He motioned to a waiting stable hand. “Kara, take him. Walk him till he’s cool, then rub him down. No grain yet, not till he’s dry.” “Yes, Sir Roland,” the girl said, leading Thunder away. I watched my stallion vanish between the rows of stalls, feeling suddenly bare without his solid presence beside me. When I turned back, Sir Roland was studying me with that same measuring look he’d given Thunder. “You’re younger than I expected,” he said. “I’m nearly sixteen,” I protested, then winced at how childish it sounded. “I started at thirteen.” He shrugged. “Age is less important than what it’s hardened—or softened.” He gestured toward the stable doors leading into the dim, warm interior. “Come. We’ll find you a bunk and a place for that sword. Tomorrow we see if you can lift it after hauling water and mucking stalls.” I hesitated. “I thought…training meant swords and shields. Drills in the yard. Not…” I glanced at the dung heap steaming faintly in the corner of the yard. Sir Roland’s mouth twitched. “Every battle is fought on a thousand small tasks, boy. A knight who won’t dirty his hands isn’t worth the steel he wears.” He started walking, then paused to look back at me. “Remember this: we all begin in the stables. Even the king once fell into a pile of horse filth his first day here. You’re in good company.” Despite myself, I smiled. “Now,” Sir Roland said, stepping into the shadows of the stable. “Let’s see if Hollowmere raises colts or champions.” </nc-section>