Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKANQWV9YN10WA7YHY4J7GW

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Knight at the Stables" data-color="red"> The stables breathed in the twilight—warm hay, damp leather, the soft clatter of hooves settling. I swung down from Thunder’s saddle, my legs buzzing from the ride, and led him beneath the low eaves where swallows nested like ink blots against the sky. A man stepped from the shadows, helm under his arm, the sunset drawing iron along the lines of his jaw. “You must be Frederick,” he said, voice like gravel smoothed by the sea. He laid a steadying hand on Thunder’s neck, and the big stallion stilled. “Sir Roland, local knight of Greythorn. Your letter reached us before you did.” I bowed, startled by the quiet warmth in his gaze. “Sir. I’m ready to begin.” “We’ll see what readiness means at dawn,” he replied with the ghost of a smile. He nodded to a stablehand. “See Thunder fed and watered.” To me, he offered a hand, rough and sure. “Welcome to the work, lad. The walls teach little; the yard teaches the rest. Walk with me, and mind your eyes—this keep has edges you can bleed on.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: Hay, Steel, and First Impressions" data-color="green"> Thunder snorted, tossing his mane as we came to the stable yard. Lanterns winked to life one by one, and the sweet, familiar scent of hay rose to meet us. A ginger cat threaded between my boots as I loosened the girth, the creature bold as a captain. “Mind your fingers,” called a voice, amused, from the open stall. A knight with wind-tangled hair and laughter tucked into the corners of his eyes stepped forward, gauntlets hooked at his belt. “Sir Roland. Local steel, if you’ll have it. You’re Frederick, then?” “I am,” I said, and he clasped my forearm, grip firm, honest. “Good. Thunder’s a fine beast—he’ll test whether you’re finer.” He offered an apple to my stallion, who chomped it without ceremony. “Stables first, then supper. We start before the sun remembers its name. You’ll learn the lay of the yard, the rhythm of the bell, and why polish on your boots is more than pride. Welcome to Greythorn Keep, lad. Keep your ears open; the horses gossip worse than the squires.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: Shadows by the Stable Door" data-color="blue"> Evening settled like a cloak around the castle, the stable lamps painting long bars of amber across Thunder’s flank. I patted his neck, murmuring thanks, when a figure detached from the doorway’s gloom—mail whispering, boots soft on straw. “Frederick,” he said, a question and a certainty. The knight’s eyes were clear as winter water. “Sir Roland. I keep the peace here—most days it lets me.” He touched the horse’s shoulder in greeting, then inclined his head to me. “Near the stables is where truth smells like sweat, not perfume. A good place to meet.” I straightened. “I’m honored, sir.” “Honor comes cheap. We’ll see about worth.” His glance ticked to the ramparts, listening to some private measure. “Dawn in the yard. Bring a blade you trust and boots you don’t mind bleeding. For now, get Thunder settled and find a bowl of stew before the pot’s scraped clean. Welcome to your first night on the edge of something larger than you know.” </nc-section>