Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5SE5ND67T6975C5Q8KY8T

I will create three distinct versions of the story continuation, each with its own tone and focus. <nc-section data-title="The Welcoming" data-color="red"> The stables were a welcome sight after the long ride, a cavernous structure of worn timber and the rich, earthy scent of hay and horse. I had barely swung my leg over Thunder's flank when a voice, gravelly and sharp as a whetstone on steel, cut through the afternoon quiet. "Squire Frederick, I presume." I turned to see a man who could only be Sir Roland. He was not the gleaming, romantic knight of ballads. His surcoat, once perhaps a vibrant crimson, was faded to the color of dried blood and dusted with road-grime. Scars mapped a harsh history across his knuckles and a cheekbone. His eyes, a pale, piercing gray, assessed me with a look that felt less like a greeting and more like an inspection of a new blade—checking for flaws, for the weak point that would shatter under pressure. "Your timing is adequate," he said, his voice devoid of warmth. "The sun sets. Stabling your mount is your first duty. See it is done thoroughly. We begin at dawn. No later." He gave a single, curt nod that was more dismissal than welcome, then turned on his heel, his heavy boots thudding against the cobbles as he strode toward the keep, leaving me alone with the echoing silence of the yard and the weight of his expectation. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Greeting" data-color="green"> The clatter of Thunder's hooves on the castle's cobbled approach announced my arrival better than any herald. As I guided him through the broad archway into the stable yard, a figure stepped from the shadowed interior of the stables. He was a man of sturdy build, with a beard the color of seasoned oak and eyes that crinkled at the corners. His attire was practical leather and sturdy wool, but the well-worn sword at his hip and the air of quiet authority marked him as Sir Roland. "Frederick of Oakvale?" he called out, his voice warm and carrying. "We've been expecting you. That's a fine beast you have there." He approached, not with stern formality, but with the easy confidence of a man comfortable in his own domain. He offered a calloused hand first to Thunder, who nudged it amiably, and then to me. His grip was firm and sure. "The journey was long, no doubt. Get your companion settled—the end stall on the left has fresh hay and water. Then, find your quarters above the smithy. Cook has kept a plate warm for you." He clapped a friendly hand on my shoulder. "Training starts tomorrow. Today, you rest and become acquainted with your new home." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Arrival" data-color="blue"> The castle loomed, a silhouette of power against the twilight sky. As I dismounted in the vast, torch-lit bailey, the day's last light glinted off the pauldron of the man awaiting me. Sir Roland stood as still as the stone gargoyles above, a figure carved from discipline and dusk. His armor was functional, polished but not ornate, and his blue surcoat bore a silver emblem of a stoic hawk. He watched my every move with an unnerving, detached focus. "You are the squire," he stated, his voice low and measured, not a question. He did not step forward to help, nor did he smile. "The stables are there. Tend to your horse with precision. A knight's life is bound to his steed; neglect in the stable is cowardice on the field." He paused, his gaze sweeping over me and my travel-worn gear. "Report to the armory after. Your equipment is insufficient. We will rectify that." He then turned, his cloak swirling behind him like a shadow given form, and walked toward the main keep without a backward glance, leaving me in the growing dark with a sense of cold, solemn duty settling over the bustling yard. </nc-section>