Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY874EP5J9WFHXWEABB9TD8

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1 Alternate: The Gruff Greeting at the Scorched Stables" data-color="red"> Frederick had barely reined Thunder to a swaying halt beside the castle’s splintered stables when a sharp bark cut through the crackle of smoldering hay (leftover from a raider’s skirmish the night prior). Sir Roland—his left cheek crisscrossed by a fresh, oozing scar and his steel gauntlet curled around a stable post—leaned forward, eyes like flints. “Squire Frederick? Spare the gawking at the charred beams. Your first ‘training’ starts now.” The knight’s greeting left no room for awe; he nodded at a vacant stall where a foal’s frayed halter dangled, explaining raiders had absconded with the king’s prized winged filly an hour before. Thunder nickered, sensing the tension, as Roland snapped a leather saddlebag of lances at Frederick’s feet. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1 Alternate: The Tender Greeting Among Clover" data-color="green"> As Frederick dismounted Thunder to brush the stallion’s wind-tousled mane, the soft jingle of a horse’s bell led him to the stables’ sun-dappled side—ringed with clover that dusted his boots green. Sir Roland knelt there, his gauntlets set aside to dab a healing salve on a mare’s limping hoof, and looked up with a warm, crinkled smile. “You’ve tended Thunder well,” he said, his greeting laced with the earthy scent of hay and mint. He waved Frederick closer, pointing to the mare’s swollen ankle: a result of stepping on a rusted nail while grazing. “Training starts not with swords, but with care—for the creatures that will carry you through every battle. Help me wrap her hoof, and I’ll tell you how the castle’s clover fields once healed a dragon’s wounded paw.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1 Alternate: The Mysterious Greeting Beneath the Blue Falcon" data-color="blue"> Frederick paused beside the stables’ weathered oak doors—carved with faint, blue-tipped runes he didn’t recognize—when a quiet voice drifted down from the roof. Sir Roland sat there, a blue-tipped falcon perched on his gauntlet, his gaze fixed on the distant, cloud-shrouded mountains where the last dragon was said to roost. “You feel it too, don’t you?” his greeting murmured, soft as a summer rain. He hopped down to the stable yard, the falcon taking flight to circle Thunder’s mane, and traced one of the blue runes. “These carvings tell of a dragon that once hid its egg in these stables. Your arrival isn’t just for squire training—it’s to help me find the egg before the shadow cult digs it up. That stallion of yours?” He nodded at Thunder, who nickered as if in recognition. “He’s descended from the dragon’s mount.” </nc-section>