Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKB4H2ZYZAAP54F5XNGT0EC

<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> The scent of hay and horse-sweat met me as I led Thunder beneath the shadow of the stable eaves. Evening gnats spun through gold bars of light, and a sleepy mare snorted from her stall. I had half a mind to find a bucket and a currycomb before anyone saw the road-dust on us both. “Best let him breathe before you strip the saddle,” a voice called, steady as a whetstone. I turned. Sir Roland stood there, a man forged of leather and iron and the long miles between villages. His hair was touched with silver at the temples; a pale scar cut like a river through his beard. He did not tower, but it felt as if the air remembered him. He held his gauntlets in one hand, a smile in the other. “You’re Frederick,” he said, and offered his arm. “Roland of Ashenford. These stables see more truth than any hall. Welcome.” His grip was sure and warm. Thunder flicked an ear toward him and settled as though he knew the man already. “I—I’m honored, sir,” I managed. “I hope to prove worth the hay I eat.” “You’ll earn more than hay,” Roland replied, glancing along Thunder’s lathered flank with a practiced eye. “But first, you’ll earn your horse’s trust. Water there, oats there—half measure, he’s run hard. Then you and I will speak of the castle, and the work it asks of those who sleep beneath its roof.” He stepped aside, giving me room to lead Thunder in, and his presence followed like a lantern’s glow, steadying the dusk. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> I slid from Thunder’s back and my knees protested the ride. The stable yard was a mosaic of trampled straw and hoofprints, the air thick with dust and the sharp tang of leather oil. A boy darted by with a pitchfork. Somewhere a hound barked twice, then thought better of it. “Hold,” a voice snapped, as neat as the snap of a rein. Sir Roland moved from the shadow of the tack room, all angles and economy. His tabard bore the faded stag of the valley, its thread worn but mended with care. He didn’t introduce himself at once; he went to Thunder’s girth and pressed it with two fingers. “You’d have stripped this and dropped him cold, wouldn’t you?” His eyes flicked to mine—flint, not unkind, but measuring. “Name.” “Frederick, sir.” “Sir Roland. You’ll wait before unbuckling. Walk him—slow. Let his wind come back to him the way a river finds its bed.” He tossed me a worn lead-rope; I fumbled and almost dropped it. He said nothing of that. “When you’re done, you’ll curry his coat, pick his hooves, and then muck that stall—yes, that one—clean enough for a king to sleep on it. You eat after your horse eats. You rest after he rests.” “Yes, sir.” “And you say ‘thank you’ to the beast that carried you.” The corner of his mouth twitched, the closest thing to a grin I’d yet seen. “The knights who forget that don’t stay knights long.” I led Thunder out into the yard, counting our steps, feeling the lesson settle into my bones like the weight of armor I hadn’t yet earned. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> Dusk gathered blue as a bruise around the stables. Fireflies pricked the shadows, and the horses shifted in their stalls with the quiet thunder of a dozen patient hearts. Thunder nosed my shoulder, damp and breathing clouds, and I whispered a thank-you into his mane. “Good,” someone said, as if I had passed a test I didn’t know I’d taken. “A whispered kindness counts as much as a shouted oath.” Sir Roland stood by the gatepost, one hand resting on an old nail scar as if it anchored him. His pauldron bore enamel the color of deep water; his eyes had weather in them. A leather thong at his throat held a coin punched with a spiral mark I did not know. “You’re Frederick,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. “I’ve watched the road all afternoon. Roads always bring two things—dust and change.” He stepped closer, and Thunder’s ears pricked. “I’m Roland. I keep this valley’s peace as best I can.” I bowed, awkward with saddle-stiffness. “Sir.” He nodded toward the stalls. “You’ll learn more from the breath of horses than from any lord’s speech. Steel sings, yes—but straw speaks, too. It tells you how a night will go.” I glanced past him, to the castle rising like a promise against the dim. “What will this night say?” “That you are where you ought to be,” he answered softly. “And that something old has turned in its sleep.” He watched me for a heartbeat more, as if listening for a sound only he could hear. Then he clapped his hands, brisk, and the spell of the moment broke. “Walk him down. Half oats. Then find me in the yard. We’ll speak of duty… and of the things the bards make pretty.” In the rafters, a swallow stirred. The evening held its breath, and I felt, absurdly, that it was holding mine with it. </nc-section>