Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8KW7MA1QMBBBZH4C14H7F

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1 Alternate: The Gauntlet’s Jab" data-color="red"> Thunder’s hooves had barely settled in the stables’ straw when a gauntleted fist rapped sharply against the wooden stall frame—Sir Roland, his scar-sliced cheek flushed with the day’s last anger, stood poised to greet Frederick. The knight’s crimson cloak still reeked of raider smoke, a reminder of the skirmish he’d quelled at the western border that morning. “You let a bramble scratch your stallion’s flank on the ride in,” he snapped, jabbing a finger at the faint gash on Thunder’s hindquarter. “A squire who can’t guard his mount can’t guard his liege—and this castle doesn’t suffer careless squires.” He seized Frederick’s wrist, his grip firm but not cruel, and nodded at the stable boy hauling hay: “First lesson: tend to your horse before your own hunger. Fail that, and you’ll be mucking stalls till the ravens forget your name.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1 Alternate: The Foal’s Whisper" data-color="green"> As Frederick led Thunder into the stables’ sun-dappled aisle, a soft whinny drew his eye—Sir Roland, his forest-green tunic dotted with clover, knelt beside a skittish foal nuzzling his palm. The knight lifted his head, a warm smile crinkling the corners of his weathered eyes, and greeted Frederick with a nod that felt like a breeze through oak boughs. “You speak to your stallion like he’s a friend, not a tool,” he said, gesturing to Frederick’s gentle pat on Thunder’s neck. He held out a handful of sweet feed to the foal, which nuzzled closer. “Training’s not just about swings and salutes—it’s about growing with the things you’re sworn to protect. Tuck a sprig of clover in Thunder’s mane tomorrow; it’ll calm him when the castle bells roar. Small kindnesses make strong squires.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1 Alternate: The Shield’s Echo" data-color="blue"> The stables hummed with the soft snorts of resting horses when Sir Roland stepped from the shadow of a stacked hay bale, his blue cloak faded by years of rain and sun, his hand brushing the chipped edge of an old oak shield propped against a stall. He greeted Frederick with a quiet murmur, not a shout, his gaze drifting to Thunder as if seeing a ghost of a horse long gone. “My first squire—Liam—rode a stallion just like yours,” he said, his voice thick with memory. “He forgot to check his mount’s shoes before a patrol, and it cost him his life in the moors.” He leaned against the stall frame, the evening mist curling through the stable doors. “Training will teach you to hold a sword, but wisdom will teach you to look twice. Tend to your horse’s shoes tonight. It’s a small thing, but small things weave the fabric of duty.” </nc-section>