Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5E86BNTE2EWWHE9ZVHRZ9

<nc-section data-title="The Greeting - Version 1" data-color="red"> The clatter of Thunder's hooves on the cobblestones echoed in the stableyard as I dismounted, my legs stiff from the long ride. Before I could even loosen the girth, a voice like grinding stone cut through the dusk. "You're late." Sir Roland emerged from the shadow of the hayloft, his armor not gleaming, but dulled by use and old dried mud. He didn't offer a hand. His eyes, grey as winter slate, scanned me from dusty boots to wind-tangled hair, finding every flaw. "The stables are no place for ceremony. Tend to your beast. Then find the quartermaster. Dawn comes early here, boy, and it does not wait for the unprepared." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Greeting - Version 2" data-color="green"> As I slid from Thunder's back, patting his sweat-damp neck, a figure in a worn leather jerkin approached, the smell of hay and honest sweat preceding him. It was Sir Roland, but not the marble statue from the tales. His face was creased with smile lines, and his eyes held the quiet patience of ancient woods. "Easy, lad," he said, his voice a low, steady rumble. He offered a waterskin first to my horse, then to me. "A long road. A good rider cares for his mount before himself. Here, I'll show you." His greeting was not words of welcome, but the shared, quiet work of brushing down Thunder, a lesson in kinship that began in the gentle gloom of the stable. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Greeting - Version 3" data-color="blue"> The last light of day bled from the sky as I led Thunder into the vast, quiet stable. The only sound was the soft chomp of other horses and the distant call of a night bird. A man stood silhouetted in the wide doorway, watching the stars begin to pierce the twilight. He turned, and I recognized the grave, thoughtful face of Sir Roland from my father's descriptions. "Frederick," he said, not as a question. His voice was calm, measured, carrying a weight of quiet sorrow. "You have your father's look. And his horse." He placed a hand on Thunder's flank, a gesture of deep familiarity. "Peace is a fragile thing, squire. It is guarded in stillness as much as in storm. Your training begins in this quiet. Observe. Listen. The stable at dusk holds more truths than the noisy field at noon." </nc-section>