Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7HB1C5F1J7HQ8414921C9

Here are three alternate sections, each with a distinct tone and color palette, continuing the story: <nc-section data-title="The Stable's Greeting (Red)" data-color="red"> The clatter of Thunder’s hooves died as I slid from the saddle, my boots sinking into the hay-strewn dirt of the stable yard. By then, the sun had dipped low, painting the sky in streaks of molten copper, but the air still hummed with the day’s heat. A shadow fell over me—broad, solid, *commanding*—before a voice like a forged blade split the stillness: “Squire. Your name, if you please.” I spun. The man who stood there was a mountain of a knight, his armor dented from a hundred battles, his red surcoat spattered with what might have been old mud or old blood, fluttering like a banner of defiance. His beard was salted with gray, his eyes the color of storm clouds, but when he tilted his head, there was a flicker of something sharp—interest. “Frederick,” I managed, my throat tight. He grunted, stepping closer. The heat of his presence seared my face. “Your father served with me,” he said, as if that explained *everything*. A hand fell heavy on my shoulder, calloused and unyielding. “Don’t make me regret it. The stables need mucking, the horses need feeding—but mark this, squire: a knight doesn’t *watch* the world burn while he scrubs floors. He *stops* it. Now move. And if I hear you sigh once, I’ll make you muck *three* pens before dawn.” With that, he turned, striding toward the castle, his armor singing. I stood there, breathless, as Thunder nickered softly, as if laughing at my discomfiture. Some greetings, I realized, weren’t meant to be warm. They were meant to be *sharp*. Like a sword. Like a lesson. <nc-section data-title="The Stable's Greeting (Green)" data-color="green"> Moss crept up the stable walls, softening the stone, and clover grew wild between the cobbles, where Thunder now cropped the grass, his tail swishing lazily. The air smelled of damp earth and fresh hay, sweet as spring. I was still fumbling with the reins when a voice called from beneath a canopy of ivy, its tone like the murmur of a stream. “Took you long enough, lad. I saw your smoke a mile back.” Sir Roland emerged, his green surcoat blending into the foliage, his chainmail glinting with dewdrops. He was older than I’d thought—his hair silver, his face creased like a map—but his eyes were bright, crinkling at the corners when he smiled. “Thought you might’ve got lost,” he said, though it was more a jest. He clapped a hand gently on Thunder’s neck, and the stallion nuzzled him, trilling softly. “This one’s a fine beast. Strong as oak, but soft as moss when he wants. Like a knight, really—all brawn, but heart.” He turned to me, holding out a leather flask. “Rum? Keeps the chill out. Your pa would’ve drunk it straight from the bottle, you know. Sat right here, by this very post, and told stories about dragons—said they weren’t just in taverns, but in the way knights fight. ‘Bravery’s a fire,’ he’d say, ‘and a good squire’s the fuel.’” I took the flask, its wood worn smooth by decades of hands. When I lifted it, Sir Roland nodded, his smile warm as sunlight. “Well. Now you’re the fuel. Let’s see if you burn bright.” Thunder nickered again, as if agreeing. <nc-section data-title="The Stable's Greeting (Blue)" data-color="blue"> The sky was a deep, cerulean now, the sun a smudge of gold on the horizon, and the stable yard lay in shadow, cool as a stone well. I’d just handed Thunder’s reins to a groom when a figure emerged, slow and deliberate, like the tide coming in. “Frederick,” he said, his voice low, like a bell struck far away. A man in blue, his surcoat the color of twilight, his armor polished to a sheen that mirrored the stars now pricking the sky. He stopped before me, and I saw that his face was kind—lines around the eyes, a mouth that usually quirked upward—and that his armor held no dents, no scars. “Your mother wrote to me,” he said, as if I might shatter if he spoke too loud. “She said you’d be stubborn, but that you’d always stand when others sat. She said you’d question the world, but you’d never question *why*.” He reached into his tunic, pulling out a small, chipped horn. “This is your father’s. He gave it to me the day you were born, said, ‘If I don’t come back, tell him to blow this when he’s ready.’” I took the horn, its surface cool, engraved with a dragon—a simple thing, but alive with the weight of memory. Sir Roland placed a hand on my shoulder, his touch firm, steady. “Your father was a dragon slayer,” he said, “but not the kind who *killed* them. He *listened*. To me, to your mother, to the village girls who’d sneak him bread when he was sick. A knight’s not a weapon, squire. He’s a bridge. Between fear and safety, between doubt and hope.” He paused, then smiled. “Well. Bridges need building. Let’s start with that horn.” Some greetings, I thought, are not just meetings—they’re *promises*. Each version leans into the color’s symbolic resonance, while tying the knights and Frederick’s journey to deeper themes: steel and legacy (red), growth and storytelling (green), trust and quiet courage (blue).