Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA8BCZC6JFDXHKVTGXSR8R

<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> Thunder’s hooves slowed to a measured clop as Frederick reined him in beside the stables. The air here was thicker—hay and warm animal breath, oiled leather, and the sharp bite of iron from the shoeing block. Stablehands paused in their work to glance at the newcomer: a boy in travel-dust and borrowed mail, trying hard not to look like he belonged nowhere. A shadow fell across the packed earth. “Frederick of Westmere?” a voice asked—firm, practiced, the sort that could carry over a battlefield and still sound calm. Frederick turned. The man who approached wore a knight’s surcoat the color of storm clouds, stitched with a simple silver lance. His hair was cropped close, his jaw dark with stubble, and his eyes had the steady weight of someone who had made too many decisions at the edge of danger. “Yes, sir,” Frederick said, sliding from the saddle a moment too quickly. His boots hit the ground and he nearly stumbled. He caught himself, cheeks warming. The knight’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Easy. The castle has enough stone to bruise a man without you helping it.” He stepped nearer, laying a hand on Thunder’s neck. The stallion snorted, then settled under the touch. “You handle your mount well,” the knight went on. “Better than you handle your pride.” Frederick swallowed. “I—I’m here to begin my training.” “So I’m told.” The knight’s gaze flicked to Frederick’s gear: the strap mended twice, the scabbard worn at the throat, the mail that had belonged to someone broader. “I’m Sir Roland. Master-at-arms when the old one isn’t pretending his knees don’t ache. If you’re to be a squire here, you’ll answer to me as often as to the lord of this keep.” Frederick straightened. “Yes, Sir Roland.” Sir Roland nodded once, as if weighing the sound of Frederick’s obedience. “Then listen well. Stables first. A squire learns early that a knight’s glory begins with muck and feed. See Thunder settled and brushed. Then report to the yard before the last light dies.” Frederick reached for the reins, but Sir Roland did not move away. Instead, his eyes lifted past the stable doors, toward the darkening ridge beyond the fields—where the horizon seemed to hold its breath. “When you hear the wind change at night,” Sir Roland said quietly, “don’t ignore it. This valley carries old stories. Some of them still have teeth.” Frederick followed his gaze, a chill threading through the warmth of the stable air. “What kind of stories, sir?” Sir Roland’s hand left Thunder’s neck. “The kind we don’t tell boys on their first day.” He stepped back, the small almost-smile gone. “Not until they’ve learned how to stand their ground.” With that, he turned toward the courtyard, leaving Frederick with the reins, the scent of hay, and an unease that had nothing to do with the coming night. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> Frederick guided Thunder between the stable posts, the stallion’s flanks slick with sweat from the long ride. Lanterns had been lit under the eaves, and their amber light painted the straw gold. Somewhere inside, a horse stamped and nickered as if answering a question only it could hear. “Hold there.” The command came from behind, crisp enough to stop both boy and beast. Frederick turned with the reins looped around his fist. A knight strode across the stable yard as if it belonged to his boots. His armor was half-unbuckled, as though he had come straight from the training ring; a practice sword hung at his hip, and there was a fresh smear of chalk on one vambrace. He was broad-shouldered, not overly tall, and moved with a controlled economy—like a man who had learned never to waste strength. “Frederick,” the knight said, making the name sound like a test. “The new squire.” Frederick bowed awkwardly. “Yes, sir.” “I’m Sir Roland.” He did not offer a hand. His gaze went to Thunder first, then returned to Frederick’s face. “You rode hard. Either you were chased, or you don’t know when to spare a horse.” Frederick bristled, then caught himself. “The road was… longer than I expected.” Sir Roland’s expression remained unreadable. “And you expected the castle to be closer?” Frederick’s mouth opened, then closed. “No, sir.” A stablehand approached with a bucket, only to freeze when Sir Roland glanced his way. The man retreated at once. It wasn’t fear exactly—more like respect sharpened into habit. Sir Roland stepped nearer, taking the reins from Frederick without asking. Thunder tossed his head once, then quieted. “You’ll learn this,” Sir Roland said, his voice lower now. “A horse reads your hands the way an enemy reads your eyes. If your hands tremble, the horse will know you’re afraid before you do.” Frederick’s throat tightened. “I’m not afraid.” Sir Roland looked at him for a long moment. “Good. Then you have no excuse when you fail.” The words landed like a gauntlet thrown into dust. He handed the reins back. “Stable your mount. Clean his tack. Then find me in the yard. If you arrive after the bell, you’ll run the wall twice.” Frederick nodded quickly. “Yes, Sir Roland.” Sir Roland began to turn away, then paused. “One more thing.” Frederick held still, waiting. Sir Roland’s eyes flicked toward the western sky, where the last light bled out behind the hills. For an instant, the knight’s stern mask slipped—just enough to reveal a caution that looked older than him. “If you hear a sound like wings in the night,” he said, “wake someone. Anyone. Do not go looking on your own.” Frederick frowned. “Wings, sir?” Sir Roland’s face closed again. “You’ll hear plenty of nonsense in this keep. Learn which nonsense makes men lock doors.” He walked away, leaving Frederick under the lantern glow with Thunder’s warm breath against his wrist—and a warning that felt like a stone placed carefully in his pocket. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> The stable yard was a small kingdom unto itself—rows of stalls, a tack room that smelled of saddle soap and old sweat, and a trough where water rippled under the noses of thirsty horses. Frederick slowed Thunder to a walk, blinking grit from his eyes. The castle loomed just beyond, all gray stone and high windows that caught the dying light. A man leaned against the stable’s outer wall, arms folded as though he’d been waiting there for hours. He wore a knight’s cloak pinned at the shoulder with a plain iron clasp, the fabric dusted with straw. No shining helm, no ceremonial polish—only the quiet authority of someone who didn’t need to announce himself to be heard. When Frederick dismounted, the man pushed off the wall and approached. “You’re late,” he said mildly. Frederick’s stomach dipped. “I—The road—” “The road is always something,” the knight replied. His voice was calm, even almost gentle, but it carried the weight of command. “Name?” “Frederick,” Frederick said at once. “Frederick of Westmere.” The knight studied him—his travel-stained cloak, the way he stood a shade too straight, the way his fingers tightened on the reins as if they might slip away. At last, the knight nodded. “Sir Roland,” he said, and dipped his head, not quite a bow. “I oversee the squires. That means I’m the one who keeps you from being killed by your own eagerness.” Frederick tried to hide his relief at being given a place in the castle’s order. “It’s an honor, sir.” Sir Roland’s eyes shifted to Thunder. He reached out slowly, letting the stallion scent his knuckles before stroking along the crest of his neck. Thunder relaxed, ears swiveling forward. Sir Roland’s touch was sure—familiar. “Good horse,” Sir Roland murmured, then looked back at Frederick. “You chose well. Or you were lucky.” “I’ve had him since I was small,” Frederick said. “He’s… stubborn.” “So are you,” Sir Roland said, and there was the faintest hint of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “That can be useful, if you learn when to bend.” Frederick’s cheeks warmed, unsure whether he’d been praised or warned. Sir Roland gestured toward the open stall nearest the door. “Put him there. Water first. Then check his hooves for stones. If you leave him sore, you’ll spend tomorrow learning what it feels like to run in armor.” “Yes, Sir Roland.” Frederick led Thunder forward, but before he could step into the stall, Sir Roland spoke again—quietly, as if not meant for the stablehands within earshot. “This keep has rules you won’t find in the codex,” Sir Roland said. “If the watch ever sounds the dragon bell—one long, then three—do not go to the walls. Do not look for proof. You go to the cellar and you stay there until someone with a sword tells you otherwise.” Frederick paused, hand on Thunder’s halter. “Dragon bell?” Sir Roland’s gaze didn’t waver. “Old habit,” he said. “Old fear.” A gust of wind slipped through the yard, stirring the straw at their feet. For a heartbeat Frederick thought he heard something far off—so distant it might have been thunder, or the echo of a wingbeat in the hills. Sir Roland’s eyes lifted, just briefly, toward the darkening sky. Then he clapped Frederick once on the shoulder—not hard, but decisive. “Welcome to the castle, Frederick. Don’t make me regret saying it.” And with that, the knight turned toward the courtyard, leaving Frederick with the stable’s warm dimness and the strange, heavy feeling that he had arrived not just at a place of training… but at the edge of an old legend waking. </nc-section>