Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAR6PMX5NCKTKZ9JV280W9

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Weathered Knight" data-color="red"> As I passed beneath the shadow of the gatehouse, I slowed Thunder to a trot. The courtyard opened before me in a rush of noise—clattering hooves, clinking harness, the distant clang of steel from the training yard. A sharp tang of hay and horse and steel filled my lungs. Near the stables, a single figure stepped forward, cutting cleanly through the bustle. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his mail shirt dulled by use rather than polish. A faded blue surcoat, marked with the silver hawk of our kingdom, hung from his shoulders, frayed at the hem. A shallow scar drew a pale line from his temple to the corner of his jaw, disappearing into a close-cropped, graying beard. He took Thunder’s reins with a practiced hand, his grip sure but gentle. Dark eyes studied me—measured, weighing—yet not unkind. “You ride well enough for a boy from the valleys,” he said. His voice was low, carrying a rasp that spoke of long campaigns and colder nights. “I am Sir Roland of Highmere, sworn knight of this castle.” He dipped his head, the gesture more acknowledgment than bow. “You must be Frederick.” I straightened in the saddle, suddenly aware of the dust on my jerkin, the sweat on my brow. “Yes, my lord. Frederick son of Alden.” “Sir,” he corrected mildly. “Save ‘my lord’ for those who care about such things.” One corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Come down from there. No good knight was ever made by sitting a horse and staring at walls.” Heat crept into my face. I swung my leg over and slid to the ground, my boots thumping onto the packed earth. Up close, Sir Roland smelled faintly of leather oil and smoke, like a half-forgotten battlefield. He studied me again, slower this time, as though considering a puzzle. “You’re slighter than I expected,” he murmured. “But you’ve got your father’s eyes. Alden was sharp as a whetstone and twice as stubborn.” His gaze shifted briefly, almost wistful. “He saved my life once.” The words caught in my chest. My father had worn his secrets tightly wrapped; I had never heard this tale. Sir Roland released Thunder’s reins to a waiting stableboy with a nod. “The castle is not kind to dreamers, Frederick. But it does have use for those who learn quickly.” He gestured toward the training yard. “Come. We’ll see if your hands can hold a sword as well as they hold a bridle.” I fell into step beside him, the castle rising around us like a stone giant waking from sleep. Whatever boy I had been in the valley, I felt him slipping away with each step, leaving something leaner, sharper—something the world might yet call a knight. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Gruff Welcome" data-color="green"> The stableyard hit me like a wall—sweat and hay and horse dung, men shouting, harness jingling as grooms led animals to and fro. Thunder snorted beneath me, tossing his head at the unfamiliar scents. “Easy, boy,” I murmured, patting his neck. “Good seat,” a voice called. “Shame about the face.” I turned sharply. A man was leaning against a stable post, arms folded, one boot hooked casually over the other. His mail hauberk was open at the throat, exposing a thick neck corded with muscle. Sun-browned skin, nose broken at least once, dark hair threaded with iron gray. His sword belt hung low on his hips, the scabbard worn smooth along its edge. He pushed off the post and walked toward me with a lazy, unhurried stride that somehow still managed to look dangerous. “You must be Frederick,” he said. “You look lost enough.” “I—yes, sir,” I stammered. “I’ve just arrived.” “Sir?” His eyebrows arched, amused. “That’s generous for a man you’ve never met.” He reached for Thunder’s bridle, his hand steady, letting the horse sniff his knuckles before taking hold. “Name’s Sir Roland. Stablemaster says I’m to break you in before you break your neck.” Heat rose to my cheeks. “I can ride well enough.” “Aye, I saw. You sit like you were born in a saddle.” He glanced up at me, eyes sharp. “But riding’s the least of your worries. Up there, you fall, you bruise your pride. Out there”—he jerked his chin toward the distant hills beyond the curtain wall—“you fall, you die.” He clicked his tongue, and Thunder, traitor that he was, followed obediently as Sir Roland led him toward an empty stall. I dismounted, landing a bit heavier than I intended, legs stiff from the long ride. “You brought your own tack?” Sir Roland asked, eyeing Thunder’s bridle and saddle. “Yes, Sir Roland. My father—” “Good,” he cut in. “Keep it. Learn to care for it yourself. The moment you let another man mind your gear, you start dying by inches.” He handed the reins to a stableboy with a nod. “Brush him down, water him, then bring him oats. He’s done more work today than you have.” “Yes, Sir Roland,” the boy said, scampering off. Sir Roland turned back to me, his gaze raking from my travel-stained boots to my dusty hair. “You ate?” “On the road, earlier.” “Hungry?” I hesitated. “A little.” “Good. Hunger keeps you sharp.” He tossed a wooden practice sword at my feet. It thudded into the dirt, sending up a puff of dust. “You’ll eat after you’ve earned it. Training yard. Now.” I swallowed, glancing once at Thunder, then back at the knight. There was no kindness in Sir Roland’s expression, but no cruelty either—only a hard, unyielding expectation. “Yes, Sir Roland,” I said, bending to pick up the sword. His mouth twitched, maybe approval, maybe just a habit. “That’s three ‘yes, Sir Rolands’ already,” he muttered as we walked. “You keep that up, boy, and we might just make something useful out of you.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Quiet Oath" data-color="blue"> The last light of the setting sun washed the stableyard in molten gold. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, catching the glow as grooms moved between horses and stalls. Thunder’s hooves rang hollow on the packed earth as I guided him toward the hitching rail. A man was already there, waiting. He stood motionless, like a stone that had grown tired of being part of a wall and stepped forward to see the world. His armor was plain—no unnecessary ornament, no polished gleam, just well-oiled mail and a dark surcoat bearing the silver hawk of the kingdom. His hair was cut close to his head, more gray than black, and his face was carved in hard lines, as though the years had been chisel and mallet. Those eyes, though—clear, steady, the color of river stones—watched me approach without a word. I slowed Thunder to a walk. The man stepped forward and took the reins with a sure hand. Thunder, usually skittish with strangers, only flicked an ear and settled. “You came alone,” the man said. His voice was neither harsh nor warm; it was simply there, like the weight of a shield on your arm. “Yes, sir,” I answered, dismounting. My legs trembled slightly when my boots met the ground. “From the valley of Redford.” He studied me a moment longer, then gave a single, small nod. “The road from Redford isn’t gentle. You ride well to have made it by sundown.” He released the reins to a waiting boy without looking away from me. “I am Sir Roland. This is my post, and now, so is it yours.” I swallowed. “Frederick, son of Alden,” I said. “Reporting for service, Sir Roland.” At my father’s name, something flickered behind his eyes—surprise, then recognition, then a grief so quickly hidden I might have imagined it. “Alden’s boy,” he murmured. The words were soft, almost to himself. “The years do run faster than an old man can chase.” “You knew my father?” “I did.” A pause. “I owed him more than thanks.” He seemed about to say more, then closed his mouth, the lines in his face deepening. “But that is for another day.” He stepped back, looking me over in silence: the worn boots, the patched jerkin, the travel-stained cloak. I fought the urge to fidget under his gaze. “You’re young,” he said at last, “and thinner than a lance. But there’s steel in how you stand.” One corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. “We can work with steel. Clay breaks. Steel bends.” “Yes, Sir Roland,” I said, though my throat felt suddenly tight. He gestured toward the looming bulk of the castle. “Inside those walls, boys are broken or tempered. Which you become will depend on how you hold to your oath when no one is watching.” “I haven’t sworn an oath yet,” I blurted, then wished I’d held my tongue. He considered this, then nodded once more. “Then start now. Make one to yourself.” He pointed to the flag above the highest tower, its colors dark against the darkening sky. “You see that banner? Swearing to it is easy. It’s cloth. Thread. Paint. Swearing to the man you hope to be—that is harder.” The evening breeze shifted, carrying the sounds of the castle—the clash of practice blades, the murmur of voices, the distant roll of waves against the far cliffs. For the first time, it struck me that I might not be ready for any of this. “I…” The words caught. I tried again. “I will not run, Sir. Not from the training yard, not from battle, not from…from what I must become.” He watched me for a heartbeat longer, then gave the smallest of approving nods. “Good enough for the first night,” he said. “Come. I’ll show you where you will sleep, and where you will bleed.” We walked side by side toward the castle doors. Behind us, the stableboy led Thunder away, the horse’s hooves thudding softly. Ahead, the great hall awaited, and beyond it, years I could not yet imagine. Sir Roland’s voice came quietly as we reached the threshold. “Your father once told me,” he said, “that a man is not measured by the strength of his arm, but by what he protects with it. Remember that, Frederick.” He placed a hand briefly on my shoulder—heavy, solid, an unspoken promise. “From this night on, you are under my charge.” For the first time since leaving home, I felt something settle inside me—not fear, not exactly, but the weight of a path chosen. I stepped through the doorway, following the knight who had known my father, and the castle swallowed us both. </nc-section>