Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA70N06Y768H350CV0MKCC

<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> As I passed beneath the shadow of the gatehouse, the clang of hooves on cobblestone echoed between the towers. A stable boy rushed forward, hand outstretched for Thunder’s reins, but before he could reach us a firm voice cut across the yard. "Let the lad dismount on his own, Tom. A squire should learn to part from his horse with dignity." The speaker stepped from the shade of the stables: a broad-shouldered man in a mail shirt dulled by use rather than age. His hair was cropped close, streaked with early silver at the temples, and a scar traced a pale line from brow to cheek, stopping just short of his left eye. Despite it, his gaze was steady and keen. I swung down from the saddle, legs trembling faintly after the long ride. Thunder snorted, tossing his head, and I soothed him with a hand along his neck. "Frederick of Highbrook, is it?" the knight asked, folding his arms. "You ride well enough. That’s something." "Yes, sir," I said, trying not to stare at the sword at his hip. The leather of its grip was worn smooth. He studied me for a heartbeat too long, as though weighing more than my name. "I am Sir Roland, master of arms to Lord Edran. From this day, the discipline of your body and the measure of your courage are my concern." Sir Roland took Thunder’s bridle himself and led the stallion towards an empty stall. The stable boys scattered to make way, exchanging glances when they thought I wasn’t looking. "You’ll muck his stall, groom him, and see to his feed," Sir Roland went on. "A man who would one day command in battle must first learn to serve. Remember that." "Yes, Sir Roland." He glanced back over his shoulder, just a shade of something like approval in his expression. "We’ll see if you keep that ‘yes’ on your tongue after the morrow’s drills. For now, stow your gear. The castle is not as kind as the valley roads, boy. Stone has sharp edges." His words should have unsettled me, but instead a strange excitement rose in my chest. The fear that had ridden beside me all the way from Highbrook stepped back, if only a pace. Sir Roland gestured towards a low archway leading from the yard. "Come. I’ll show you where squires sleep—and where they fall, if they don’t listen." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> The smell of hay, horse-sweat, and oiled leather wrapped around me as I reined Thunder in near the stables. Lanterns already burned beneath the eaves, their light casting long bars of gold across the yard. I slid from the saddle, my boots hitting the ground with a jolt that went straight up my spine. "Mind his flank, boy. That one looks like he’d kick the moon if it stared too long." I turned. A knight leaned against a stable post as though it had been grown merely to support him. His tabard, bearing the black hawk of the kingdom, was stained from training and travel, and the hilt of his sword bore a nick as if it had once turned a desperate blow. His eyes, however, were bright, quick, and appraising. I stepped away from Thunder’s hindquarters at once. The knight’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. "You listen quickly. That will serve you better than any sharp tongue." He pushed off the post and came closer, boots crunching on scattered straw. "You must be Frederick." "Yes, sir," I replied, straightening without quite meaning to. "Sir Roland," he said. There was no flourish in the way he spoke his own name; it was as simple as stating the weight of a blade. "I serve Lord Edran, and, as misfortune or fortune would have it, I’ll be shaping you into something more than a boy astride a fine horse." Thunder tossed his head and nudged my shoulder, impatient. Sir Roland’s gaze flicked to the stallion, then back to me. "You care for your mount?" he asked. "I do, sir. My father says a man who neglects his horse will find himself walking at the worst possible moment." "Your father is right." Sir Roland nodded once. "You’ll see to this beast yourself. No squire of mine sends his friend to strangers’ hands at journey’s end." He beckoned me to follow and led Thunder into the dim, warm gloom of the stable. Dust motes drifted in the lamplight, and somewhere a horse stamped a steady, comforting rhythm. "You came here to learn sword and lance," Sir Roland continued, loosening Thunder’s girth with practiced ease, "but understand this: steel is the last tool of a wise man, not the first. You’ll learn to read the sky, mend torn leather, and keep your courage when darkness presses close. These walls shelter more than they show." I opened my mouth, then closed it again, aware of how large my own hopes suddenly sounded in my head. Knight. Honor. Glory. The words felt small beside the weight of his voice. Sir Roland gave me a sidelong look, as if he’d heard the unspoken clamor in my thoughts. "The tales you’ve heard are polished bone. What we do here is blood and gristle. If that doesn’t turn your stomach, you may yet belong." He placed Thunder’s reins in my hand. "Brush him down. When you’re done, find me in the yard. Night’s no excuse to waste a good hour of training." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> Thunder slowed to a trot as we entered the keep’s outer yard, his breath steaming in the cooling air. The last light of day clung to the sky in streaks of violet and gold, but within the castle walls, shadows were already thickening. I patted his neck, murmuring thanks for the long ride he had carried me through. "Gratitude to a horse. That’s a rare sight." The voice came from my right, dry as old parchment yet edged with humor. I turned to see a knight standing beside the stable door, helm tucked under one arm. He was not quite as tall as I had imagined knights to be, but there was a solidity to him, as if he were carved from the same stone as the battlements. His beard was trimmed short, streaked with gray, and his eyes were sharp beneath a brow lined by sun and worry. I swung stiffly from the saddle, nearly stumbling when my legs misjudged the ground. The knight watched without comment, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "You’ve ridden far, then," he said. "The first lesson you’ll learn is that one cannot fight on borrowed strength. Your horse is as much your armor as any plate you’ll one day wear." "I understand, sir," I replied, though my voice shook more than I liked. "We shall see." He stepped forward, offering his free hand. "I am Sir Roland. I keep order in this yard and see to the training of Lord Edran’s squires." I clasped his hand. His grip was firm, calloused, and carried the faint scent of oil and iron. "I’m Frederick, of—" "Highbrook," he finished for me. "Your letters described you as ‘keen of mind, sturdy of frame, and somewhat headstrong.’" My ears burned. Father’s words, no doubt. "I—I hope not to disappoint you, Sir Roland." "Hope is a thin shield," he replied, releasing my hand. "Effort, now… that is steel." His gaze shifted to Thunder, who tossed his mane and stamped. "Fine horse. Did you name him?" "Thunder, sir." "Ambitious," Sir Roland remarked. "Then you’ll learn whether you can live up to riding thunder, or if you’ll be content to follow in its wake." He took the reins gently, running a practiced eye along Thunder’s flanks, checking for strain. Satisfied, he handed them back to me. "Inside, second stall on the left," he said, nodding toward the stable’s dim interior. "You’ll brush him, water him, and see his hay set before you even think of food for yourself. A knight who eats before his horse will soon be eating dust alone." I nodded, the weight of the journey settling in my limbs but unable to smother the small flame rising in my chest. I had arrived. This was real stone beneath my boots, a real knight before me, not the painted faces in Father’s books. As I led Thunder toward the stables, Sir Roland called after me, his voice echoing softly in the gathering dark. "Hurry, Frederick. The sooner your beast is tended, the sooner you learn which end of a sword to hold. Dawn comes early in this castle, and it does not wait for dreaming boys." </nc-section>