Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAP6DGZ6986PJTK3N65QQV

<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> As Thunder slowed to a trot, the clatter of his hooves echoed against the castle walls. A group of stablehands hurried forward, but they stopped short and parted as a tall man in a worn, crimson-tabarded surcoat stepped from the shadows of the stable archway. He was not young, nor yet truly old—his dark hair was threaded with grey at the temples, and a faint scar crossed the bridge of his nose like a pale stroke of chalk. Despite the dust on his boots and the dents in his breastplate, he carried himself with the easy authority of one long accustomed to command. “You ride well enough for a lad from the provinces,” he said, voice roughened by years of shouting across training yards. His sharp grey eyes studied me, weighing and measuring, noting the calluses on my hands and the way I sat Thunder even now, half-ready to spur away if need be. “Dismount before you fall off and embarrass us both.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as I swung my leg over and slid to the ground, my boots striking the cobbles with a dull thud. “I am Frederick,” I said, trying to sound steady. “I’ve come to begin my training.” “So I’ve been told,” he replied. “I am Sir Roland of Highmere, knight of this keep and, until you prove yourself too clever to need one, your master.” He offered his gauntleted hand, and I took it, surprised by the strength in his grip. Up close, I could see there was something guarded in his gaze—as though he knew more about my future than I did. Behind him, the stable doors yawned open, the scent of hay and horse-sweat drifting out to meet the evening air. “Come,” Sir Roland said, releasing my hand. “We’ll see Thunder stabled, then you and I will speak. There’s work to be done before sunrise, and it seems the gods have sent me a new squire to torment.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> Thunder snorted and tossed his head as we passed beneath the shadow of the outer wall. The roar of the portcullis chains faded behind me, replaced by the softer sounds of castle life: murmured conversation, the clang of a distant hammer, the rustle of straw under hurried feet. The stables stood just off the inner yard, long and low, their thatched roof gilded orange by the setting sun. As I guided Thunder towards the open doors, a knight stepped away from a post where he had been leaning, arms folded across his chest. “Easy there,” he called, one gloved hand lifting in a calming gesture meant as much for me as for my horse. “You’ll wear the beast out before he’s even had a proper stall.” He was broad-shouldered and solid, his mail shirt showing at the gaps of his surcoat, which bore the sigil of the kingdom—a rearing stag beneath a crown of seven stars. His beard was neatly trimmed, his brown hair tied back at the nape of his neck. There was a steadiness in his eyes, the sort of calm I’d seen only once before: in a veteran who had nothing left to prove. I pulled on the reins and brought Thunder to a halt. Dust clung to my cloak and boots; I became uncomfortably aware of how small I must look before him. “You must be Frederick,” he said, closing the distance with a few easy strides. “Arrived just in time to avoid mucking the morning stalls. Some men have all the luck.” “I—yes,” I replied, then realized I had forgotten to bow. I dipped my head awkwardly. “My lord.” “Sir will do. Sir Roland,” he corrected, his tone firm but not unkind. “I keep an eye on the boys who come here thinking they want to be knights. The stables are where we see who’s willing to work and who only wants the glory.” He took Thunder’s bridle, his movements practiced and gentle. Thunder relaxed under his touch, as if he recognized something in the man that I had yet to understand. “See to your gear and then find me in the yard beyond,” Sir Roland said, nodding towards the racks of saddles inside the stable. “We’ll talk about where you’ll sleep, and what will be expected of you. The castle’s a hard place for dreamers, Frederick. But it can make something of you—if you let it.” For the first time since I’d glimpsed the walls from the road, I felt my nervousness fade, replaced by a strange, fragile hope. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> The castle’s inner yard opened before me in a sweep of packed earth and worn stone. To my left, the training grounds bristled with practice dummies and weapon racks; to my right, the stables sprawled in a long row, lanterns already being lit along their eaves as dusk settled in. Thunder slowed of his own accord, hooves crunching on stray straw. I patted his neck, feeling the heat beneath his glossy coat, and tried to steady my breathing. This was it—the end of the road and the beginning of everything else. “Hold there, lad,” a voice called from near the stable doors. A knight stepped into the fading light, the glow from a nearby lantern catching on the steel of his pauldrons. He removed his helmet as he approached, tucking it beneath one arm. His face was square and weathered, his eyes a clear, assessing blue that seemed to miss nothing. A few streaks of silver ran through his hair, but there was a coiled energy in the way he moved—as though he could shrug off the years and take the field at a heartbeat’s notice. “You ride as if you’ve been chased the whole way,” he said, eyeing the foam at Thunder’s mouth. “Trouble behind you, or just eagerness?” “Only eagerness, Sir,” I answered, sliding down from the saddle. My legs felt unsteady, but I forced myself to stand straight. “Frederick, son of Aldren. I’ve come to serve as squire.” He studied me in silence for a moment that stretched uncomfortably long. Then, with a faint nod, he held out his hand. “Sir Roland,” he said. “I’m the local knight charged with turning farm boys and merchants’ sons into something resembling warriors. The stables are our first test. Any lad can swing a sword when someone’s watching. Few remember to see to their horse after the dust settles.” I clasped his forearm, and he squeezed once, firmly, before releasing me. “Get Thunder settled,” Sir Roland went on, tilting his head towards an empty stall. “See his water bucket filled, his coat brushed, and his tack hung properly. When that’s done, meet me out back. We’ll speak of oaths and duties—not the kind sung about in taverns, but the ones that keep men alive.” His words were blunt, yet there was no cruelty in them—only a kind of worn honesty. As he turned away, giving orders to a stablehand with a jerk of his chin, I led Thunder into the dim, hay-scented warmth of the stable. I had come to the castle dreaming of honor and glory. Standing there with the reins in my hand and Sir Roland’s expectations already heavy on my shoulders, I began to suspect the path to either would start in a place like this: ankle-deep in straw, with sweat on my brow and no song to mark my name. </nc-section>