Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAFW83RAKDNW48PEQ7C6CC

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: A Warm Greeting" data-color="red"> A broad shadow fell across the yards as a man in battered mail stepped out from between the tack rooms. Sir Roland's voice rumbled before I could make out his face. "Well met, young Frederick," he said, and for a moment the sternness of his armor gave way to something almost like a grin. He reached out, palm calloused but steady, and ruffled my hair in a way that was both teasing and reassuring. "Thunder looks fit," he added, eyeing my stallion with the appraisal of a man who'd spent more nights under the stars than under a canopy. "If you ride half as well as you care for him, you'll do. Come—let me show you the stables and who you'll be working with. A squire's life is long hours and little sleep, but I won't have you breaking your back before dawn." He waved me along, the friendly authority in his tone setting the pace for the welcome I had hoped for. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Stern Introduction" data-color="green"> Sir Roland emerged from the shadow of the lintel, a blade lodged in his belt and a look that meant business. He nodded once, curtly. "Frederick," he said. "Word travels faster than feet. Dismount and bring the horse." There was no softness in the command—only the practical edge of a man who measured people by what they could do. I obeyed, feeling Thunder's warm flank and the creak of leather beneath my palms. Roland inspected my tack as if it were a piece of kit to be judged and found it wanting. "Polish your buckles, clean your saddle, and learn to tie a proper knot," he ordered. "If you want to call yourself a squire, you'll earn it. Meet me at dawn at the training yard." His eyes held no malice, only the expectation that I would rise to the challenge. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: A Quiet Omen" data-color="blue"> He waited by the feed trough, hands clasped behind his back, as if he'd been expecting me since before the sun dropped. Sir Roland's coat was dusted with straw, but there was a strange stillness about him—an attention that looked through me rather than at me. "Frederick," he said softly, as if the name itself carried weight. "You arrive at an...interesting time." He leaned close, lowering his voice until I had to lean in to hear. "There are stories in these walls. Old ones. Keep your eyes open and your tongue closed until you learn the room." He smiled then, and it didn't reach his eyes. "And never let Thunder be first to sense danger—animals see what we do not." With that cryptic counsel, he turned and walked toward the leak of lamplight by the tack, leaving me with a churn of questions and the sense that the castle had shifted the moment he spoke. </nc-section>