Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAHA3HVGWE6H3FM5JVZ1G5

<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> As I passed beneath the shadow of the outer wall, I slowed Thunder to a trot. The air near the stables was thick with the scents of hay, leather, and horses—familiar, comforting smells that steadied the nervous flutter in my chest. A tall figure in mail stepped away from the stable archway, the fading sunlight catching on his polished breastplate. His surcoat bore the crimson falcon of the realm, and a sword hung at his hip as though it belonged there as naturally as his own arm. “Easy there, lad,” he called, his voice roughened by age and battle, yet not unkind. He raised a gloved hand, palm open, and Thunder snorted but obeyed as I pulled the reins. The knight studied me for a heartbeat, gray eyes sharp beneath a brow creased by years of squinting into sun and smoke. Then he smiled, just enough to soften the harsh lines of his face. “You ride well enough not to be a complete waste of hay,” he said. “I am Sir Roland, master of arms for this hold. You must be Frederick, the new squire.” I slid from the saddle, my legs unsteady from the ride and from the weight of his gaze. “Yes, my lord. Frederick of Hollowmere.” “Hollowmere,” he echoed, as if tasting the word. “A long road for a boy with more courage than sense.” He stepped closer, taking Thunder’s bridle in a practiced grip, calming my restless stallion with a few quiet murmurs. “We’ll see if that courage holds when the practice yard teaches you how small you truly are.” His words stung, but his hand, when he clapped it to my shoulder, was steady and sure. “Come,” Sir Roland said. “See to your horse, then to your belly. Dawn will not wait for a sleepy squire, and neither will a swinging blade.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> By the time I reached the stables, my arms ached from the long ride and my throat was dry as dust. Stable boys darted about like sparrows, leading horses, hauling buckets, shouting to one another. Lanterns were being lit along the eaves, golden halos blooming in the dusk. A lone knight leaned against the stable door, arms folded, helm tucked beneath one arm. His hair, more silver than black, was bound at the nape of his neck, and the scar that cut across his cheek made him look as if he’d been carved from old stone. He straightened as I drew near. Thunder tossed his head, but the knight’s gaze never left mine. “You’re late,” he said calmly. I opened my mouth, then shut it again. My thoughts scattered like frightened birds. “I—late, my lord?” He pushed off the wall and stepped closer, boots grinding in the straw. “The world doesn’t arrange itself around your arrival, boy. Remember that.” He extended a hand to Thunder, who sniffed his glove before snorting in apparent approval. Only then did the man favor me with a brief nod. “Sir Roland. I keep the blades sharp and the fools from killing themselves with them. You intend to be one of my fools?” “I intend to be a knight,” I managed, though my voice wavered more than I liked. A flicker of amusement touched his eyes. “Ambitious. Good. Ambition makes you rise before dawn. Pain teaches you where to aim it.” He surveyed me from head to heel, taking in my worn boots, the dust on my cloak, the calluses on my hands. “You’ve worked before. That will help. The noble-born lads will spend the first month learning which end of the pitchfork offends their delicate fingers.” He handed me Thunder’s reins. “See him brushed, watered, and fed. Last stall to the left. Your bunk is in the squire’s loft above. Be ready at first horn.” “Yes, Sir Roland.” As I led Thunder past him, he spoke again, more quietly. “Frederick, is it?” I glanced back, surprised he knew my name. “Yes, sir.” “There are many paths to knighthood,” he said. “Some are paved with gold. Some with blood and mud. Yours smells like the second. Don’t let that frighten you.” “It doesn’t,” I lied. He smiled faintly, as if he’d heard the lie for what it was, then turned back toward the darkening yard. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> The clatter and murmur of the castle courtyard faded as I guided Thunder around the corner to the stables. Crows wheeled above the rooftops, harsh cries echoing off stone, while the first stars pricked faintly through the purpling sky. I drew in a breath, trying to smooth the hammering of my heart. A man waited by the stable entrance, outlined against the lantern glow within. His armor was not the gleaming, ornamental steel of courtly tales, but scarred and darkened, every dent a remembered blow. A deep blue cloak hung from his shoulders, its edge frayed, its clasp shaped like a coiled dragon. He watched me approach with a stillness that made the world seem to narrow to the space between us. “You ride him hard for a first arrival,” he said, nodding toward Thunder. His voice held the low rasp of someone who had barked too many orders over the years. “Either you’re running from something, or chasing it.” I swallowed. “I… wanted to be here before nightfall, sir.” “That much is obvious.” He stepped forward, gloved hand moving deftly to take Thunder’s reins. “I am Sir Roland. These stables are under my eye, as is every sword and spear in this keep. Including, from this day, you.” His gaze searched my face—my travel-stained clothes, my calloused hands wrapped white-knuckled around the saddle. “Frederick of Hollowmere,” I said, forcing my chin up. “I’ve come to serve as squire, if you’ll have me.” “If?” One corner of his mouth lifted. “The lord of this castle has already ‘had’ you, boy. Your name is ink on his ledger; your future is spent coin. My task is to see whether that coin buys a knight, or a grave marker.” The words made my stomach clench, but there was no mockery in his tone—only a flat certainty that chilled and steadied me all at once. He gave Thunder an appraising look. “Good bone. Bad manners. Not unlike his master, I suspect. See him settled. Stall three. Water, a measure of oats, and a proper brush. If he goes to bed looking like that, you’ll be running laps around the yard until dawn.” “Yes, Sir Roland.” I moved to lead Thunder away, then hesitated. “Sir… will it be very different, here?” He paused, as if weighing how much truth to give me on my first night. “Different from what you were?” He shrugged. “By the time I’m done with you, you won’t recognize the boy who rode through those gates. That’s the point.” He turned back toward the yard, cloak stirring in the evening breeze. “Remember this, Frederick: steel is made by hammer and fire. So are men. Be ready for both.” </nc-section>