Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8MF1VD09X3DV11Q9AV3ME

<nc-section data-title="Sir Roland's Greeting (Red)" data-color="red"> The stables reeked of hay and sweat, their wooden doors creaking as I dismounted, Thunder’s hooves stamping a nervous rhythm. A shout cut through the din—*“Hold!”*—and a man emerged, his chainmail clinking like molten metal in the dying light. Sir Roland, I realized, taller than I’d imagined, with a face carved like oak and a scar slashing from his left eyebrow to his jaw. He stopped short three paces off, squinting at my tunic, the golden squire’s patch frayed at the edges. “Took you long enough,” he said, but there was a spark in his brown eyes, not anger. He crossed to me, his boot heel crunching a loose horseshoe, and clapped a hand on my shoulder—hard enough to make me wince. “Frederick. Father sent you, did he? Said you’d outrun a wolf by the time you were ten. Let me see that sword.” I unslung it, the hilt cold in my sweat-damp palm. He ran a calloused thumb over the edge, nodding. “Sharp. Too sharp for a squire who hasn’t learned to *sheath* it yet.” Before I could stammer, he slammed the blade back home and planted a finger under my chin, tilting my head up. “Listen close, boy. The castle’s not a playground. It’s a battlefield, and I’m your general. Fall behind, and I’ll leave you to milk the cows. Understood?” Thunder whinnied, as if agreeing, and Sir Roland barked a laugh. “Don’t look at him. *You.* Now—grab a pitchfork. The grain’s wet, and we’ve got three horses to stable before the storm hits.” <nc-section data-title="Sir Roland's Greeting (Green)" data-color="green"> The stables were a sun-dappled haven, their walls draped with ivy, sunlight filtering through cracks in the roof to gild piles of hay. I stood there, Thunder pawing the dirt, when a voice called, “Here, lad—mind the foal!” A man in a threadbare tunic, not full armor, rounded the hay bale, his hands sticky with oats. Sir Roland. Where I’d expected sternness, I found a weathered smile, crinkles fanning from eyes the color of moss. “Took you longer than the map said, but that’s the road, aye? Can’t rush a good journey.” He knelt, offering a hand to the chestnut foal nuzzling his thigh. “This is Bramble. She’s got a temper, but she’s smart—just like you. Bet you’re wondering if squiring’s all drills and bruises. Let me tell you: it’s mostly oats and stories. My first squire once fell asleep mid-prayer and snored so loud the cook threw a spoon at him.” He stood, clapping my back gently, like a farmer checking a gourd. “Your father wrote you’re quiet, but that’s good. Knights who chatter get themselves killed. Just listen. Learn. And when you fumble—*we’ll all fumble*—but we’ll fumble together.” He led me to a stall, patting Thunder’s nose. “This one’s yours. He’s got a heart bigger than the meadows. Feed him twice, brush him till his coat shines—he’ll be more loyal than your old dog. And when the moon’s full, we’ll talk of the dragons. Not the *myth* dragons, but the ones in the stories—wise, fierce, *real* in their way. Now—help me fix the door. The wind’s got teeth, and we ain’t letting it in.” <nc-section data-title="Sir Roland's Greeting (Blue)" data-color="blue"> The stables loomed at the edge of the castle, its walls hewn from black stone, the air thick with the scent of rain and something older—salt, like the sea, like magic. I’d just dismounted when a shadow fell over me, not from a cloud, but from a man. “Frederick,” Sir Roland said, his voice low, like a bell struck in a hollow tower. His armor was blue, the metal dimmed by age, but etched into the breastplate was a dragon—its scales iridescent, its eyes two smoldering embers. “Your father spoke of you. Of… *fire*.” He held out a hand, and I took it, chilled by his skin, which felt neither warm nor cold. “Squires are not born. They are *forged*—by the wind, the sword, the shadow of a dragon’s wing.” He led me inside, where a lantern hung from the ceiling, its light casting prisms on the walls. “You smell it, don’t you? The magic. It’s here, as it always was. The castle feeds on it, the knights… we *guard* it.” He stopped at a stall, where a white mare stood, her mane silver, her eyes glowing faintly. “This is Lira. She remembers the last dragon. Not the beast, but the *heart* of it. When you tend her, you’ll hear its song. Not with your ears, but with your *soul*.” Sir Roland turned to me, his gaze sharp as a blade. “Tomorrow, you train. With a wooden sword, first—no blood, not yet. But by moonrise, I’ll ask you to stand before me and say: *I will protect what is sacred.* Will you?” Before I could answer, Lira nickered, and Sir Roland’s face softened. “Yes, I think you will. Now—we have work. The dragons wake tonight, and we must be ready.” Each version leans into the color’s essence—red’s intensity, green’s warmth, blue’s mystery—while grounding the greeting in the stables’ setting and hinting at the story’s fantasy core.