Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKABDEMD69JBTD3YY04N25Q

<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> Thunder slowed to a canter as the stables came into view, low stone buildings tucked against the outer wall of the castle. The smell of hay, leather, and horse sweat washed over me—so different from the clean fields of my village. A few stablehands paused their work to stare, pitchforks in hand, mud on their boots. One man stepped forward from the shadows of the stable arch. His mail shirt caught the last of the daylight, each ring winking like a tiny sun. He was older than I’d expected, his hair shot with iron-gray, his beard trimmed close, and a long scar ran from his left temple down to the edge of his jaw. Yet his eyes were bright, sharp as a hawk’s. “You ride well enough for a farmer’s son,” he called, folding his arms over his chest. I pulled Thunder to a halt and slid from the saddle, my legs unsteady from the journey. “Frederick, my lord. Frederick of Hartfield.” He snorted. “There’s no ‘my lord’ here. I’m a knight, not a silk-robed courtier. Sir Roland will do.” He stepped closer, inspecting both me and Thunder with the same measuring gaze. After a moment, the corner of his mouth twitched. “Your horse is better groomed than you are, boy. That’s something, at least. Come, then. Let’s see if you can mind a sword as well as you mind a saddle.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> By the time I reached the stables, the sky had deepened to a bruised purple, and lanterns were being lit along the walls. Thunder tossed his head, snorting at the unfamiliar scents—tar, smoke, and too many horses all crammed together. I patted his neck, trying to steady both of us. A tall figure leaned against a post near the stable door, arms crossed. His surcoat bore the king’s stag emblem, though the cloth was faded and stained from use rather than polished for show. A longsword hung at his hip, its pommel worn smooth. “So. The new squire arrives with the sunset,” he said. His voice carried the roughness of someone long accustomed to shouting over the clash of steel. I dismounted, nearly catching my boot on the stirrup in my haste. “I—I came as quickly as I could, ser.” He pushed off the post and came toward me, boots crunching on the packed earth. Up close, I could see the lines at the corners of his eyes, and the faint, amused curve to his lips. “You can stop tripping over your own feet for a start,” he said dryly. “I’m Sir Roland. You’ll be under my charge until you’re either a knight… or sent home with your tail between your legs.” My cheeks burned, but I straightened my back. “I won’t be sent home, Sir Roland.” His gaze held mine, weighing the words, then he nodded once. “We’ll see. Get your horse settled. The day’s done, but our work isn’t. A real squire learns that the castle never truly sleeps.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> Thunder’s hooves clattered over the cobblestones as we passed beneath the shadow of the gatehouse. Inside the castle walls, everything was noise and motion—guards changing posts, servants hurrying with baskets, the clang of a distant hammer from the forge. I followed the curve of the inner wall until the stables appeared, long and low, lantern light spilling from the open doors. A pair of boys rushed forward to take Thunder’s reins. Before I could protest, a firm hand landed on my shoulder. “Easy, lad. If the horse can’t survive a stablehand’s touch, he’s no use to anyone.” I spun around. The man behind me wore a dented steel breastplate over a padded gambeson, the armor smeared with oil and old dust. His brown hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, and a thin leather cord with a dragon’s-tooth charm hung at his throat. His gaze moved from my travel-stained boots to my calloused hands, lingering there with a flicker of approval. “You must be Frederick,” he said. “From Hartfield, is it?” “Yes, ser,” I answered. “I mean—yes, Sir…?” “Roland,” he supplied. “Sir Roland of Kestrel Ford. I’ll be the unlucky soul trying to turn you into something useful.” Something in his tone—dry, but not unkind—made my tight chest loosen a little. “I’ll do my best, Sir Roland.” He gave a short laugh. “Your best? We’ll need better than that, boy. But we’ll start with the basics. First lesson: a knight sees to his mount before himself. Help the lads with your horse. Then you’ll see where you’ll be sleeping—and more importantly, where you’ll be sweating.” </nc-section>