Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAHM0N6V0ATZNBCKZGEBNS

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Arrival — Version 1" data-color="red"> Sir Roland waited by the stables, a broad silhouette against the dying light. His surcoat was plain—no flamboyant heraldry—yet the way he carried himself left no mistaking his rank: a knight born of hard roads and harder oaths. He stepped forward as I reined Thunder, the clink of his mail soft in the hush. "Welcome to Castle Grayhaven, squire," he said, offering a gauntleted hand that I clasped with an awkward, eager grip. His voice was steady, the kind that set a man straight with a single word. "If you would learn to stand in a fight and keep your head, you'll do well to listen more than you boast. Come, there is much to teach and little time before the morrow's drills." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Arrival — Version 2" data-color="green"> Sir Roland was leaning against the hayrack, one boot kicked up on the low wall, grin spreading as Thunder nosed a bale. He tipped his helm back and called, "By the gods, a new squire—and on such a fine beast! Mind you don't teach him tricks before I teach you rodeo." I laughed despite myself as he came closer, hands quick to ruffle my hair in a way that made me wish for a helmet. "Frederick, yes? I'm Roland. Don't look so stiff; you'll break if you try to be statuesque all at once." He clapped my shoulder and handed me a coarse cloth. "First lesson: muck never scares a man who plans to wear his boots for more than a season. Follow me—I'll show you where we keep the real work." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Arrival — Version 3" data-color="blue"> The knight who greeted me was all angles—scarred cheek, one eye a pale coin—and he stood too close to the shadow of the stables, as if he belonged more to the dusk than to the torchlight. He did not smile. "You are Frederick," he said, as if he'd been expecting my name to appear on the wind. Thunder's ears prickled at his tone, and I felt the same uneasy prickle along my spine. Sir Roland dipped his head in a curt nod. "We train men here to hold a line and to keep secrets. You'll find both useful." There was something in his words that tasted of warning; when he turned away, his cloak briefly revealed the faint curve of a sigil I did not recognize—an old scar beneath his armor, or perhaps an old promise. "Come inside," he added, voice low. "Before the night remembers us." </nc-section>