Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA2HB2DQVVZKQNFYMWQSVN

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Iron Handshake" data-color="red"> As Thunder slowed to a trot, the smell of hay and horse-sweat thickened in the air. The stables stretched along the inner wall, their timber doors thrown open, lanterns already lit within. Grooms moved like shadows between the stalls, the clink of buckles and soft snorts of horses filling the courtyard. Near the largest stall, a man in a sun-faded surcoat stood with his back to me, one hand resting on the neck of a chestnut mare. His mail shirt caught the dying light in dull flashes. When he turned, I saw a weathered face framed by streaks of iron-grey hair, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. “You ride hard for a boy in a squire’s tabard,” he said, voice as rough as gravel but not unkind. He stepped forward, boots crunching on the straw-strewn stones. “You must be Frederick.” I slid from Thunder’s saddle, my legs unsteady from the long ride. “Yes, sir,” I managed. “Frederick of Alderbrook.” He studied me a heartbeat longer, gaze moving from my mud-spattered boots to my calloused hands, then to my face. Some unreadable judgment passed behind his eyes before he offered a gauntleted hand. “I am Sir Roland of Highmere, sworn sword to Lord Edric,” he said. “These stables are under my watch, as are the boys who sleep within these walls. Remember that.” His grip, when I took it, was like iron. Pain shot through my fingers, but I refused to wince. He watched my reaction closely, and for an instant, the edge of his mouth twitched upward. “Good,” Sir Roland said, releasing my hand. “You’ll need that stubbornness before the year is out.” He glanced at Thunder, running a practiced eye along the stallion’s flank. “Strong mount. He’ll serve you well—if you learn to serve better than you command. See him rubbed down and watered. A squire’s first duty is not glory, boy. It’s care.” I nodded, throat dry. As I led Thunder toward an empty stall, I felt Sir Roland’s gaze on my back, weighing me like a smith testing a new blade—deciding whether I would bend, or break. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Quiet Appraisal" data-color="green"> By the time I reached the stables, the last of the sun had sunk behind the castle’s western tower. Lanterns had been lit along the eaves, their glow spilling in trembling pools across the cobbles. Stablehands moved about with quiet efficiency, their voices low, as if the horses themselves were part of some hushed ritual. I swung down from Thunder’s back, my thighs burning from the long ride. As my boots hit the ground, a shadow detached itself from the darker recess near the stable door. He was not as tall as I had imagined a knight to be, but there was a steadiness about him that filled the space around us. His hair, once dark, was now more silver than black, cropped close to his head. A sword hung at his hip, the leather of its scabbard worn smooth with years of use. He watched me with pale, measuring eyes. “You handle the reins well enough,” he said. “For someone still wearing a boy’s uncertainty on his shoulders.” I straightened instinctively. “I… I’m Frederick, sir. Squire to—” “To whomever proves worthy of your service,” he interrupted, a faint trace of wryness in his tone. “Names are easily given. Loyalty is not.” He stepped forward then, offering his forearm rather than his hand. I hesitated only a moment before clasping it. “Sir Roland,” he said. “I keep this yard, these horses, and more than a few hot-headed lads from getting themselves killed too soon. You’ll be one of those lads, I expect.” His grip was firm, but not crushing. It was the gaze that pinned me—calm, unblinking, unforgiving. “You’re younger than I was told,” Sir Roland went on, releasing my arm. “But perhaps that’s to your advantage. Steel is easiest to shape before it hardens.” He glanced at Thunder, who snorted and tossed his head. “See to him. A knight is only as useful as the beast he rides—and the squire who learns what service truly means.” A stableboy hurried up, reaching for Thunder’s bridle, but Sir Roland lifted a hand, stopping him. “No,” he said. “Let the boy do it himself. Let him earn his place from the first breath he takes inside these walls.” I swallowed, suddenly keenly aware of the castle looming behind Sir Roland, its towers lost in the darkening sky. As I led Thunder past the knight, I felt the weight of the new world I was entering—a world where even a simple greeting came with a test hidden inside it. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Gruff Welcome" data-color="blue"> Thunder’s hooves rang hollow on the cobblestones as we passed beneath the shadow of the inner gate. The air cooled sharply, carrying the scent of damp stone, old hay, and something acrid—oil, perhaps, from the armoury nearby. The stables squatted along the courtyard’s edge, their low roof and wide doors dark against the fading sky. A man stood just outside, arms folded over his chest, watching my approach as if he’d been waiting there all evening. A battered surcoat bearing the lord’s device—three black ravens on a crimson field—hung over his mail. His jaw was covered in greying stubble, and a thin scar cut through one eyebrow, giving his gaze a permanent severity. I pulled Thunder to a halt and slid clumsily from the saddle. My knees nearly buckled, but I caught myself before hitting the ground. When I looked up, the man had already crossed the distance between us in a few long strides. “So,” he said without preamble, “the Alderbrook boy finally crawls his way here.” I blinked. “I—I came as quickly as I could, sir. The roads—” “Make excuses to your mother, not to me,” he cut in. “Horses don’t care for tales, and neither do I.” He extended a gauntleted hand. I took it, and his fingers closed around mine like a smith’s vice. For a heartbeat, I thought he meant to crush my bones. Then he released me just as suddenly. “Sir Roland,” he said. “I train the squires who don’t die of fright their first week. You intend to be one of the living, I hope?” “Yes, Sir Roland,” I said, hearing the tremor in my own voice. He snorted, something that might have been amusement flickering in his eyes. “We’ll see. Courage is cheap when you’re standing in a courtyard and the only thing facing you is an old man and a barn full of manure.” He walked around Thunder in a slow circle, appraising the stallion with quick, professional glances. “Good withers. Clean legs. Better horse than most boys deserve on their first posting.” Thunder tossed his head, and Sir Roland grabbed the bridle with a firm, easy hand. The stallion stilled at once. “If you can manage him half as well as you managed not to fall on your face just now, we might make something of you,” Sir Roland said. He jerked his chin toward the stable doors. “Get him inside. Rub him down, check his hooves, fresh water, half a measure of oats. You know how, or do I need to send for your nursemaid?” “I know how,” I said, heat rising to my cheeks. “Good. Prove it. Around here, your worth will be measured in blisters and bruises long before it’s weighed in glory.” He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Welcome to the castle, Frederick. Try not to disappoint it.” As I led Thunder into the dim, hay-scented warmth of the stables, I could feel Sir Roland’s stare lingering on me—a flinty, unforgiving gaze that somehow felt more like a promise than a threat. </nc-section>