Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAN6CXW2BQPK9BYHQWS9WN

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Arrival — Version 1" data-color="red"> I reined Thunder to a slow walk as we passed beneath the shadow of the great oaks that ringed the castle yard. The stables lay to my left, the scent of hay and horse sweat thick in the evening air. A figure detached himself from the doorway—a broad-shouldered man in dented plate, the sun catching a white streak through his dark hair. Sir Roland, the local knight I had heard whispered about in the villages, stepped forward with a hand lifted in greeting. "Frederick," he said, voice like gravel and warm bread, "you've made it." He bowed at the waist with practiced ease, though his smile was quick and genuine. Up close I saw the fine lines at the corners of his eyes and the long faded scar that ran from cheek to jaw. He reached out to pat Thunder's mane, then gestured toward the stable. "Come. We'll see to your mount and then to the barracks. There is much a squire must learn that cannot be read in a book." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Arrival — Version 2" data-color="green"> Thunder snorted as we slowed beside the stables, steam rising from his flanks into the cool dusk. Laughter drifted across the yard and a man in lighter armor sauntered over, helm tucked under his arm. Sir Roland—tall, with a quick grin and a sword that had clearly seen use—tipped his helm playfully. "By the kings, that's quite the beast," he called, clapping my shoulder as if we'd been comrades for years. "Welcome to the castle, Frederick. If that stallion of yours complains about the rations, don't blame me; the stablemaster's been stingy since the duke took up hunting." He winked, then handed me a rolled cloth. "You'll need this. And leave the reins to me for a bit; Thunder looks like the sort to be fed first and praised second." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Arrival — Version 3" data-color="blue"> The stables breathed a quiet warmth as I guided Thunder beneath the eaves. A lone torch guttered against the wind, and from the shadow of a post emerged a man in worn armor, cloak still dusted with travel. Sir Roland's presence was less a greeting than an acknowledgement—the kind a sentinel offers to a new watchman. He studied me for a heartbeat before stepping forward. "Frederick," he said, voice low enough that the word felt like a weighing scale. "You've come at a crossroads, whether you know it yet or not." His eyes were dark and steady, the smile that followed almost formal. He reached out, not to my horse, but to my gauntleted hand, and squeezed once. "Rest tonight. Tomorrow we begin your lessons. There are matters at court and in the wilds that will not wait for a man to grow inwardly at a comfortable pace." </nc-section>