Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAMDK1VCVBBGF1X1YKK87P

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Red Greeting" data-color="red"> Thunder’s breath fogged the cool air as I stepped down from the saddle, the stable yard a chorus of creaks, hay-scent, and horses. A figure moved along the line of mangers—the local knight, Sir Roland—tall, sleeves plain, eyes measured. He halted beside Thunder’s stall, studying me as if weighing a new blade before turning it in the light. “Frederick,” he said, voice steady as a sword stroke, “I am Sir Roland, guardian of this castle and of the discipline you seek.” I held his gaze, letting the dusk thin around us, and asked my own breath what it would permit this night. He spoke of duties and the code with the cadence of a man who had spent years teaching boys the weight of a shield. He asked my name again, asked what drew me here, and whether I understood that training began in the quiet moments as much as in the barracks. Then, with a nod to Thunder, he laid out a simple test—let Thunder feel your calm, listen when the stall door creaks, and prove you can bind your will to his without breaking it. He entrusted me with tying Thunder to a post, reminding me that a squire earns trust one knot at a time. The twilight thickened, and I knew dawn would bring the real work. “You’ll start tomorrow at first light,” he said, eyes softening just a fraction. “Be ready.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Green Greeting" data-color="green"> The meeting with Sir Roland felt less like a verdict and more like an invitation. He stepped from the shadow of the tack room into the glow of lantern light, and I could see the banners mirrored in his steel-blue eyes. He greeted me with a firm shake of the hand and a rare half-smile. “Frederick, welcome to the castle’s day-to-day,” he said, voice warmer than I expected. He asked about Thunder, about how I had learned to ride, and listened as I told him of my farmstead childhood and the few victories that had brought me here. We walked along the rows of stalls, the leather and oats scent wrapping around us as he pointed out the livery rings, a place where a squire could learn to balance blade and bridle. He warned of no easy path, but offered something more lasting: guidance, a steady hand, and a ceiling of expectations higher than I’d dared to dream. We parted near the chestnut corral, with a promise to meet again in the training yard at dawn. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Blue Greeting" data-color="blue"> Sir Roland did not waste time on niceties. He emerged from the shadow of the stalls as if stepping onto a stage, arms crossed, the hinge of his cloak catching a sliver of lantern light. He spoke with a gravity that pinned me to the spot. “Frederick,” he began, not with warmth but with clarity, “this is where the road begins.” He gestured toward Thunder, who whickered in his stall, and then toward the restless mare in the next door, who flinched at every sound. “Here is a test for a squire,” he said, almost as a dare. “If you want to walk with knights, you will learn to quiet fear as much as you command strength.” He handed me a rope and a bucket and told me to help with the restless mare, to speak softly, to listen to the horse’s breath, to move with it rather than against it. I did as he asked, my hands steady, my heartbeat loud in my ears. When the mare settled, he did not smile, yet there was a glint of approval in his eyes. “Tomorrow, dawn,” he stated. “Be ready.” Then he turned and strode back into the shadows, leaving me with the scent of hay and a mind full of questions about the path ahead. </nc-section>