Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA0SYS4V6Q2297NS0KJATZ

<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> Thunder’s hooves slowed from a gallop to a restless clop as the castle’s outer yard opened around me—cobbles, straw, and the sharp, comforting tang of horse-sweat. The stables sat to the right of the gatehouse like a long, low shadow, their doors thrown wide to breathe out warmth and steam. A groom in a stained jerkin lifted a hand to catch my reins, but another figure stepped in first. He moved with the ease of someone who had lived in armor long enough to forget its weight. Sir Roland was taller than I expected, his mail shirt dulled by use rather than neglect, his tabard marked with the castle’s sigil. He looked up at me as if measuring not my horse, but my seat, my hands, the set of my shoulders. “So,” he said, voice roughened by wind and command, “they’ve sent us a new squire.” I slid from Thunder’s back a heartbeat too quickly, boots striking stone with a crack that felt louder than it should have. I managed a bow that was almost graceful. “Frederick of—” I began. Sir Roland lifted a gauntleted hand. “Names later. Horses first.” His eyes cut to Thunder. “You rode hard.” “I didn’t mean to press him, sir. The road—” “The road always offers excuses.” The corner of Roland’s mouth twitched, not unkindly. He took the reins himself, surprising me with the gentleness of his grip, and led Thunder toward an open stall. “If you’re to serve here, you’ll learn this: a knight may survive a dull blade, but not a tired mount.” A groom hurried to lay fresh straw while Roland loosened the girth with practiced fingers. “Walk him out next time before you ask him to stop. Let the heat leave his muscles. If he goes lame, you’ll carry your own armor.” “Yes, Sir Roland,” I said, cheeks burning. I reached for the saddle straps, eager to prove I could be useful. Roland watched my hands. “Better. Not good—better.” He nodded once, as if granting me an inch of ground to stand on. “Come. When Thunder’s settled, you’ll meet the master-at-arms. And Frederick—” I looked up. Roland’s gaze held mine, steady as a drawn sword. “Leave whatever you were on the road. Inside these walls, you’ll be made into what you are meant to be.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> The stable yard smelled of wet hay and warm hides, a comfort after the long road’s dust. Thunder snorted, tossing his head as if the place belonged to him already. I guided him toward the nearest trough, searching for a groom—someone—anyone—to tell me where I should stand, what I should do, how I should not look like a country boy pretending at courage. A man leaned against the stable’s outer post, arms folded, as though he’d been there waiting long before I appeared. His armor was not polished for parade; it bore the honest scuffs of training yards and patrol roads. A sword hung at his hip without ceremony. He pushed away from the post and approached with an unhurried confidence. “You’re late,” he said, and there was no heat in it—only the certainty of a man used to time and duty. “I—” I swallowed, feeling the words catch. “The bridge south of—” He waved off the explanation with two fingers. “The bridge is always broken, the weather always foul, the world always intent on making us later than we wish.” He stepped close enough that I could see the pale line of an old scar beneath his jaw. “Sir Roland.” Frederick, I told myself. Say it properly. Speak like you belong. “Frederick, sir. Sent from Briar Hollow to begin service.” “Mm.” Sir Roland’s attention shifted to Thunder in the same way a smith’s gaze shifts to metal—appraising, attentive. He reached up and ran a hand along the horse’s neck, not flinching when Thunder blew a hot breath over his knuckles. “Good shoulders. Strong heart. You chose well.” “I didn’t choose him,” I admitted. “My father did. He said a squire’s first lesson is to trust what carries him.” “That’s a wiser lesson than most lords manage in a lifetime.” Roland motioned to the stable doors. “Bring him in. Water first, then rub him down. Don’t let him drink too fast after the ride.” I hesitated, fingers tightening on the reins. “I… I’ve done it before. Just not in a place like this.” Sir Roland’s eyes softened a fraction. “No one is born into stone walls, boy. Even a castle is raised one block at a time.” He stepped beside me and, with a nod, showed me where to lead Thunder so he wouldn’t startle the other horses. As we walked, Roland spoke quietly, almost as if sharing a secret. “Listen carefully: the stables will teach you as much as the training yard. A knight who can’t care for a mount cannot care for men.” Thunder’s hooves rang on the cobbles, steady now. I breathed in the stable’s warm air and felt something in my chest loosen—fear, perhaps, or the road’s lingering tightness. Sir Roland glanced at me once more. “Finish here, Frederick. Then find me in the yard. We’ll see what sort of hands the kingdom has sent us.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> The castle yard was larger than the village green back home, and twice as loud—iron on stone, voices calling, a distant hammer ringing like a bell. Thunder tossed his mane, uneasy under so many eyes. I guided him toward the stables where lanternlight spilled through slats in the timber walls, painting warm bars across the ground. A knight stood near the stable doors, half in shadow, half in that honeyed light. His cloak was thrown back, and his cuirass caught the last of the sunset in dull red streaks. He wasn’t old, but there was a steadiness about him that made age seem irrelevant, like a mountain’s patience given human form. “You’ll be Frederick,” he said, as if the name had been waiting for me. I tightened my grip on the reins, then remembered myself and eased it. “Yes, sir.” He stepped closer. Up close, I noticed small details: a nick in the edge of his gauntlet, mud dried at the heel of his boot, a faint scent of leather and pine resin. Not a court knight, polished for feasts—this was a man who belonged to roads and weather. “Sir Roland,” he added. “Local knight, if you must label it. Which is to say I’m the one who’ll see you don’t get yourself killed before you can be of use.” My throat went dry. “I didn’t come to die, sir.” Roland’s eyes flicked to Thunder, then back to me. “No one does. They come to serve, to learn, to chase the songs they’ve heard.” He reached for Thunder’s bridle and Thunder, to my surprise, accepted the touch. Roland’s hand was firm, sure—like he understood the language of animals better than the language of halls. “You rode well enough,” he said, leading Thunder a step toward the stable’s mouth. “But you rode like someone afraid of arriving too late. That fear makes men careless.” “I wanted to make a good first impression.” Roland gave a short, quiet laugh. “Then make it on the work that matters.” He nodded toward the stable interior where a groom paused, watching us with open curiosity. “Stable him. Check his hooves for stones. Rub him down until his coat shines and your arms ache. A knight’s pride begins with what he tends when no one is looking.” I slid from the saddle more carefully this time and started loosening the straps, hands trembling with the effort to appear calm. Roland watched for a moment, then reached in to show me the correct way to unbuckle without pinching the leather. “Better,” he said. I glanced up. “You’ll train me, sir?” “I’ll do what needs doing.” Sir Roland’s gaze traveled briefly over the yard—the towers, the gates, the movement of men like ants beneath a great stone hive. When he looked back at me, his voice had lowered. “This castle stands because we keep our vows. Remember that. There are… older things in these lands than banners and kings.” The words landed heavier than they should have, stirring something uneasy in the back of my mind. I wanted to ask what he meant, but Roland was already turning away. “Finish here,” he called over his shoulder, “then report to the yard. Dawn comes early, and it favors no one.” Thunder huffed softly as I led him into the stable’s warmth. Outside, the last light faded from the stones, and Sir Roland’s silhouette merged with the gathering night like a warning carved into living flesh. </nc-section>