Run: 2026-02-19-01KHVPCDQ923RHNJB768JG3316

<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> I pulled back on the reins, guiding Thunder under the heavy iron portcullis and into the bustling, torch-lit courtyard. The familiar scents of hay, woodsmoke, and horse sweat drew me toward the sprawling stables at the edge of the keep. Before I could even swing my leg over the saddle to dismount, a towering figure stepped out from the shadows of the stalls. It was Sir Roland. His chainmail clinked softly with every step, and his battle-scarred face broke into a surprisingly warm, gap-toothed smile. "Welcome to the crucible, boy," his deep voice bellowed across the yard, clapping a heavy, leather-clad hand onto Thunder's flank. "Let's see if you've got the squiring mettle to match such a fine steed." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> The great oak doors groaned open to receive us, swallowing Thunder and me into the lantern-lit belly of the fortress. I steered toward the wooden outbuildings, the rhythmic clatter of hooves announcing my long-awaited arrival to the stablehands. Leaning against a sturdy wooden post, half-illuminated by the flickering torchlight, stood Sir Roland. He was exactly as the village bards had described: broad-shouldered and deeply weathered, with graying hair and eyes that held the hard, cold wisdom of a hundred campaigns. He gave a sharp, validating nod as I slid from the saddle onto the cobblestones. "You ride well enough, Frederick," his gravelly voice echoed in the cool evening air. "Now, we find out if you can swing a sword just as smoothly." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> Slowing Thunder to a steady walk, I passed under the high archway into the inner ward, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. This was it—the true beginning of my tutelage. I navigated the busy maze of servants and men-at-arms toward the royal stables, where a man wearing a tabard over polished armor was meticulously inspecting a row of bridles. Sir Roland turned at the sound of my approach, wiping oil from his calloused fingers with a linen cloth. His gaze swept over me, observant and piercing, before he set the cloth aside and extended a welcoming hand. "So, this is the kingdom's new blood," he murmured, a respectful, fatherly glint in his eye. "Rest your beast, Frederick. Tomorrow the grueling work begins, but tonight, you have finally made it home." </nc-section>