Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAS8NYP3M2ABBHBR12ET3R

<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> Thunder’s hooves slowed from a gallop to a restless prance as Frederick guided him along the inner yard. The castle smelled of iron and wet stone, but nearer the stables the air turned warmer—hay, oats, and the sharp tang of sweat from hard-worked horses. Grooms hurried between stalls, their voices low beneath the clink of tack and the rasp of brushes. Frederick swung down from the saddle and nearly stumbled, legs stiff from the ride. He caught himself before the reins slipped, fumbling to look as capable as he’d imagined a squire ought to look. “Easy now,” a voice said—calm, edged with amusement. “The ground doesn’t move. Only you do.” Frederick turned. A knight stood near the stable doors, half in shadow beneath the overhang. He was broad-shouldered, his mail shirt dulled by travel, his surcoat marked with the castle’s sigil. A weathered sword hung at his hip as if it belonged there more naturally than his own hands. His eyes were grey and measuring, but not unkind. “Sir Roland,” one of the grooms murmured, bowing his head as he passed. Frederick’s throat tightened. He had heard the name on the road—spoken with that particular mixture of respect and fear that follows a man who has survived battles other men only brag about. Frederick straightened quickly, nearly yanking Thunder’s bit. “S-sir. I’m Frederick. I—” He swallowed, forcing the words out cleanly. “I’ve come to begin my training.” Sir Roland’s gaze flicked to the horse first, then back to Frederick. “You rode in alone?” “Yes, sir.” “And you managed not to get yourself killed between here and the nearest village?” Sir Roland’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “That already sets you above half the boys who arrive boasting they’ve seen war because they once watched a militia drill.” Heat rose in Frederick’s cheeks. “I didn’t mean to boast.” “I know.” Sir Roland stepped closer, boots crunching on straw. He took the reins with practiced ease, letting Thunder sniff his gauntlet. The stallion calmed at once, as if he recognized authority in the knight’s stillness. “You’ll learn soon enough that courage is quieter than most people expect.” Frederick watched him, both relieved and intimidated. “Will you… be my knight, sir?” Sir Roland studied him for a long moment. Somewhere inside the stable, a horse stamped and snorted. The sound echoed like a warning. “That depends,” Sir Roland said at last. “On whether you can rise before dawn, scrub stalls without complaint, and keep your eyes open when the world offers you something strange to look away from.” Frederick blinked. “Strange, sir?” Sir Roland’s gaze slid briefly toward the far edge of the yard where the shadows pooled deepest against the outer wall—where the castle’s oldest stones lay. “This place is old. It has memories. Some of them don’t like being disturbed.” Then he handed the reins back, as if the moment of unease had never happened. “Come. I’ll have you shown where you’re to sleep. And tomorrow, we’ll see whether you’re here to become a knight… or simply to wear a sword you haven’t earned.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> Frederick followed the curve of the inner yard toward the stables, where lanterns burned beneath the eaves and the smell of hay rose like a welcome. The castle behind him loomed taller than he remembered from the road, its towers catching the last of the dusk as if the stones had learned to drink light. A stablehand in a patched jerkin waved him toward an open stall. “There, lad—bring him in slow.” Frederick nodded, heart pounding with the sudden feeling that every eye in the yard could see straight through his borrowed confidence. He dismounted carefully this time, hand firm on Thunder’s reins, and began to lead the stallion forward. “Hold,” a voice called. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The stablehand froze. Two grooms stopped mid-step, their heads bowing almost without thought. Frederick turned, reins taut in his hand. A knight approached from the shadow of the stable doors, the light catching on the edge of his pauldrons and the worn buckle of his sword belt. His hair was cropped short, his beard touched with silver at the chin, and his expression held the sort of patience that had once been earned with blood. “Sir Roland,” the stablehand said quickly, respectful. Sir Roland’s eyes rested on Frederick, then on the horse. “You’re new.” “Yes, sir.” Frederick’s voice sounded smaller than he intended. “Frederick of—” He hesitated, unsure whether the name of his village mattered in a place like this. “Frederick. Here to squire, sir.” Sir Roland stepped closer and took in Thunder with a professional glance. “Good legs. Alert. Not spooked by noise.” His hand lifted, and Thunder—who had tossed his head at every stranger on the road—leaned forward to sniff the gauntlet as if greeting an old friend. Frederick stared. “He… doesn’t usually like people.” “He doesn’t like uncertainty,” Sir Roland corrected. He tilted his head slightly, as if listening to something beyond the yard. “Neither should you.” Frederick tried to stand straighter. “I’ll do my best, sir.” “Your best will be tested.” Sir Roland motioned toward the stable entrance. “First lesson: a knight’s day begins with the horses. A man who cannot care for another creature has no business holding power over men.” One of the grooms opened the stall wider, and Frederick guided Thunder in. The stallion settled, blowing softly as hay rustled underhoof. Sir Roland watched Frederick’s hands as he unfastened the tack—how he moved, where his eyes went when he worked. When Frederick fumbled a strap, the knight didn’t correct him immediately. He waited, letting Frederick find the answer with his own fingers. At last, Sir Roland spoke again. “You arrived at a curious time.” Frederick paused, saddle half-lifted. “Curious, sir?” “Messages have been coming from the northern watchtowers.” Sir Roland’s gaze drifted briefly to the battlements above, where a lone silhouette stood against the darkening sky. “Hunters speak of scorch marks where no fire burned. Shepherds swear they heard something flying over the moors—wings too large for any bird.” Frederick’s chest tightened. “A dragon?” The words escaped before he could stop them. Sir Roland’s eyes sharpened, as if Frederick had struck a flint. For a heartbeat, the yard seemed to hush around them. “Careful with that word,” Sir Roland said softly. “People forget what it means until it’s too late.” Then his expression smoothed again, as composed as steel cooled after forging. “Finish up here. When you’re done, find me by the practice yard. We’ll see whether you can hold a sword without letting it hold you.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> The stables were a world of their own—warmth spilling out into the evening, lanternlight gilding dust motes that drifted like tiny spirits. Frederick led Thunder beneath the eaves, boots sinking slightly into straw that had been trampled into the earth. Somewhere inside, a mare whickered, and the sound echoed against timber beams darkened by age. He was halfway through loosening Thunder’s girth when a shadow fell across him. “Not like that,” a man said. Frederick looked up, startled. The knight who stood beside him did not announce himself with fanfare. He simply was—solid as the stable posts, as if the castle had decided to carve a person out of its stone and send him walking. His armor was not polished for ceremony; it bore the muted scratches of use. A small crest was fastened at his shoulder, worn enough to show it had followed him through seasons of rain and smoke. Frederick swallowed. “Sir…?” “Sir Roland,” the nearest groom supplied, and bowed so quickly Frederick thought the man might fold in half. Sir Roland’s attention remained on Frederick’s hands. “If you loosen the girth before the saddle is steadied, you’ll end up with a bruised foot and a horse that learns to distrust you.” Frederick flushed, then corrected himself, holding the saddle as he worked. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Sir Roland’s gaze finally lifted to Frederick’s face. He had the kind of eyes that made Frederick feel examined down to the seams of his tunic. Not cruelly—simply thoroughly. “You’re the new squire.” “I hope to be,” Frederick said, then realized how it sounded. “I mean—I’ve come to train.” “A hopeful boy,” Sir Roland murmured, the words neither praise nor insult. “Hope can be a fine blade. It can also cut the hand that holds it.” Frederick managed a cautious nod, unsure whether he was being warned or welcomed. “My lord said the castle would take me.” “Castles take many things,” Sir Roland replied. “Not all of them leave unchanged.” He reached up and ran his knuckles along Thunder’s neck, feeling muscle and heat beneath the coat. The stallion shifted, then stilled, accepting the touch. “You named him Thunder,” Sir Roland said. Frederick blinked. “How did you—?” “The way you look at him,” Sir Roland said simply. “And the way he looks at the sky when the air turns heavy. Horses know things before men do.” Frederick glanced up instinctively. Above the stables, the first stars were pricking through the dusk. The wind had changed—cooler now, carrying a faint scent that didn’t belong to hay or hearth smoke. Something sharp. Like stone struck against stone. Sir Roland’s face tightened almost imperceptibly. He turned his head toward the distant ridge beyond the castle walls, where the horizon lay like a dark blade. “Is something wrong, sir?” Frederick asked. Sir Roland paused long enough that Frederick heard Thunder’s quiet breathing and the far-off clang of a gate being barred. “Perhaps nothing,” the knight said. “Or perhaps the sort of thing that begins as nothing because men prefer it that way.” He took a step back, the momentary tension easing as he returned his focus to Frederick. “Finish settling him. Then report to the armory at first light. If you’re to be a squire here, you’ll learn discipline before you learn glory.” Frederick nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.” Sir Roland started to leave, then stopped as if remembering something. Without turning fully, he added, “And Frederick?” “Sir?” “If you hear wings tonight—real wings, not the flutter of bats—don’t run outside to look. Wake someone. Wake me.” Frederick’s mouth went dry. “Wings?” Sir Roland’s answer was quiet, and it carried the weight of old stories told around low fires. “This castle was built long before men convinced themselves dragons were gone.” </nc-section>