Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7T8TZ5HQ6RXKA3MFWHMVV

Here are three distinct versions of the scene, each with its own tone and flavor: --- <nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Weight of Expectations" data-color="red"> The iron gates of Castle Vaelthar groaned as Thunder’s hooves struck the cobblestones, his breath steaming in the crisp evening air. I dismounted with the stiffness of a boy who had spent too many nights hunched over a scroll, my fingers still trembling from the long ride. The stables loomed ahead, their wooden beams dark against the fading light. Sir Roland stood there, his armor polished to a mirror shine, his silver-plated greaves catching the last rays of the sun. His face was a mask of quiet intensity—no smirk, no jest, just the unspoken weight of a man who had seen too many squires fail and too few rise to the challenge. He adjusted the grip on his sword, its hilt wrapped in worn leather, and spoke in a voice like gravel: *"You’re late."* I swallowed hard. "The road was longer than the maps showed, sir. And the wolves—" *"Wolves don’t scare knights,"* he cut in, though his eyes flickered toward the shadows beyond the stables. *"But timing does. The Lord Commander expects precision. And you, Frederick, are his precision now."* A gust of wind sent a loose strand of my hair across my face. I brushed it back, suddenly aware of the sweat still dampening my neck beneath my tunic. "I’ll do better, sir. I swear it." Roland’s lips twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. *"We’ll see."* He turned toward the stables, his voice dropping to a murmur. *"But first, you’ll earn your keep. There’s a cartload of supplies to unload before the night watch arrives. And don’t drop a single crate."* I followed him, my stomach twisting. This wasn’t the grand adventure I’d imagined. It was hard work. It was *real*. </nc-section> --- <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Unlikely Mentor" data-color="green"> The stables smelled of hay and old leather, the air thick with the warmth of horses and the faint tang of sweat. Sir Roland clapped me on the shoulder—harder than necessary—before leading me to a bay stallion with a coat like polished bronze. *"Meet Bramble,"* he said, scratching the horse’s neck. *"He’s got a temper, but he’ll listen to you if you don’t back down first."* I hesitated. "I’ve never—" *"Never what?"* Roland’s voice was sharp, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. *"Never ridden? Never held a sword? Never been called ‘sir’ by someone who wasn’t your father?"* He chuckled, low and rough. *"Kid, you’re in for a world of surprises. But you’ll learn. That’s what squires do."* Bramble snorted, pawing the ground. Roland sighed. *"Alright, fine. You’re not useless yet."* He tossed me a brush. *"Start with this. And don’t let him think you’re afraid."* As I scrubbed Bramble’s flank, my hands moving clumsily, I caught Roland watching me from the corner of his eye. *"You’re not from these parts, are you?"* he asked suddenly. I shook my head. "No, sir. My village was burned. I—" I stopped myself, biting my lip. That story wasn’t mine to tell yet. Roland’s expression softened. *"Burned, huh?"* He didn’t press. Instead, he gestured to the saddle. *"Then you’ll need to be twice as sharp. This world doesn’t forgive mistakes."* I nodded, gripping the brush tighter. For the first time, I didn’t feel like an outsider. I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be. </nc-section> --- <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Shadow of the Past" data-color="blue"> The stables were eerily quiet, the only sound the distant clatter of armor being sharpened somewhere beyond the courtyard. Sir Roland stood with his back to me, his broad shoulders tense beneath his surcoat. When he turned, his face was unreadable—no warmth, no judgment, just the cold precision of a man who had seen too much. *"You’re Frederick,"* he said, not a question. I nodded. "Yes, sir." He studied me for a long moment, his dark eyes tracing the lines of my face. *"You look like him."* My breath caught. *"Who?"* *"The last dragon rider."* Roland’s voice was quiet, almost reverent. *"Your father."* I stiffened. "I—I don’t know what you mean." *"Liar."* The word was soft, but it carried the weight of a blade unsheathed. *"The rumors are still fresh. The boy who fled the burning village, the one who swore he’d return. The heir to the Last Dragon."* He exhaled sharply. *"You’re either very brave or very stupid."* I swallowed. "I don’t know what to say." Roland’s expression darkened. *"Then don’t say anything."* He turned away, his voice dropping to a growl. *"But you’d better learn fast. The kingdom’s on the brink, and the Lord Commander doesn’t have time for half-truths or broken dreams."* I followed him in silence, my mind racing. *The Last Dragon.* That wasn’t just a story. It was a curse. And now, it was mine. </nc-section>