Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY86XFRC2N8X1AHR59WAPZH

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Brisk Greeting of the Scarred Knight" data-color="red"> I’d barely begun unsaddling Thunder’s sweat-caked girth when the stables’ oak doors crashed open, and Sir Roland stormed in—his steel armor dented with raider blade marks, a fresh scar slicing through his left eyebrow. He didn’t waste a breath on pleasantries, planting a gauntleted hand on the stable post beside me. “Frederick, the squire with the overzealous stallion,” he barked, his gaze flicking to Thunder’s snorting flinch at the clatter of his armor. “You think galloping across the fields like a fool earns you favor? Your training starts before dawn—we’ll be tracking the raiders who harried the western homestead last night. Tether your horse tight; if he spooks and bolts, you’ll be mucking stalls for a moon.” The stench of iron and hay clung to the air as I stared, my fingers frozen on Thunder’s saddle, realizing this greeting was my first lesson in the unforgiving weight of knightly duty. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Gentle Greeting Beside the Wounded Foal" data-color="green"> I led Thunder toward the stables’ sun-warmed rear stall, where the scent of clover hay tangled with the soft whinny of a foal, when Sir Roland stepped into view—his armor set aside, a length of linen wrapped around his hand as he knelt beside the tiny creature’s limping foreleg. He looked up with a faint smile, his voice soft enough not to startle the foal. “Frederick, I’ve been waiting for the squire who rides a stallion with a heart bolder than his own,” he said, nodding toward Thunder, who’d already crane his neck to nuzzle the foal’s mane. “Your first training won’t be with a sword. It’ll be with this little one—his leg was caught in a hunter’s snare at dawn, and tending to those weaker than us is the root of all noble service.” I knelt beside him, my earlier thrill of arrival melting into a quiet wonder at the knight’s gentle resolve. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Cryptic Greeting Beneath the Weathered Medallion" data-color="blue"> I was brushing Thunder’s glossy coat beside a stable post scarred with centuries of horsehoof marks when Sir Roland leaned against the opposite beam, a weathered blue medallion twisted between his fingers. The air hummed with a faint, unplaceable echo as he spoke, his voice low and laced with a mystery I couldn’t parse. “Frederick, the squire who rides toward a fate he can’t yet see,” he greeted, his gaze fixed on the medallion’s faded engraving of a coiled dragon. “You think your training is about swords and sieges? It’s about the secret the stables have guarded for generations—one that ties you to the last dragon’s slumbering curse.” I paused mid-brush, Thunder’s snort cutting through the silence, as I tried to unspool the cryptic words that hung heavy in the hay-scented air. </nc-section>