Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA5VWYPVVEMVXKCDDJTCDX

<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> The courtyard’s clamor fell to a hush as I reined Thunder before the stables. Lantern light pooled like spilled honey along the cobbles, and the smell of hay and oiled leather greeted us. A tall figure stepped from the shadows—a man with laugh-lines cut deep at the eyes and a cloak the color of stormclouds. “Welcome to Highmere, Squire Frederick,” he said, voice steady as an anvil. “I am Sir Roland.” He moved with the easy grace of someone long acquainted with armor, one gloved hand soothing Thunder’s neck. “Good legs on this one. He’ll forgive your mistakes if you own them quick.” “I mean to make as few as I can,” I managed, sliding from the saddle. My knees wobbled only a little. Sir Roland’s mouth quirked. “Ambition’s a fine fire—temper it with patience, and you won’t scorch yourself. Stalls are open there. See Thunder bedded, then find me at dawn in the eastern yard. We’ll see what your hands can do besides gripping reins.” He stepped back to meet my eyes fully, and for a heartbeat the weight of the castle—the training, the trials—seemed to rest on his shoulders alone. Then he nodded once, like a door opening. “Welcome to your beginning.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> Thunder’s hooves clattered to stillness before the long, low stable. From within came the thud of bales and the comforting snort of horses at rest. A knight in plain steel, unadorned save for a leather baldric darkened by years of use, waited by the door. His gaze cataloged me, my seat, my hands on the reins. “Frederick,” he said. Not a question. “Sir Roland.” I slid down. “Sir.” “Walk him,” Sir Roland ordered, turning to keep pace beside me. “Slow. Let me see if you guide or drag.” We made a gentle circle. Thunder followed my shoulder with only a twitch at the bit. Sir Roland watched my fingers more than my face. “Better than most first days,” he admitted. “You listen. Horses like that. So do instructors.” He halted us by a stall already bedded fresh. “You’ll muck before you polish steel. Know why?” “To learn humility?” I ventured. “To learn rhythm,” he corrected. “The body learns a steady labor. Later, your sword will be grateful.” A flicker of approval touched his features. “Dawn. Eastern yard. Bring no pride you cannot carry at a run.” He clapped Thunder’s shoulder, then mine, the same measured weight. “Welcome to work worth doing.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> Evening spilled blue across the stones as Thunder and I drifted toward the stables. Swallows skimmed the eaves, stitching the day closed with quick wings. A man waited by the half-door, helm under his arm, hair gone silver at the temples like frost that refused to melt. “Frederick,” he greeted, as if we were resuming a conversation paused years ago. “I am Sir Roland. You came with the wind still on your cloak.” “It was a fair wind,” I said, patting Thunder’s neck. He smiled at the horse first. “Fair winds choose the willing.” He reached out, and Thunder, judgmental as any old tutor, allowed the touch. “Good. He approves. That will make our first lesson kinder.” “First lesson?” My voice climbed before I could anchor it. “Patience and presence,” he replied, stepping aside to open a stall. “Two things a blade cannot teach you.” He gestured toward the quiet within, the soft gold of straw. “See to him. Feel the shape of his breath. Make your movements match it.” I led Thunder in. The stable’s hush folded around us like a vow. Sir Roland’s silhouette filled the doorway, not blocking the light but framing it. “Dawn,” he said, already turning. “Bring your questions. Leave your certainty. We’ll trade both for skill.” </nc-section>