Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8PSF6T9CHNPZD52XNRE57

Here are three distinct versions of the scene, each with its own tone and flavor: --- <nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Weight of Expectation" data-color="red"> The clatter of hooves on cobblestones faded as I dismounted Thunder, my breath coming in sharp bursts. The stables loomed ahead, their wooden doors slightly ajar, the scent of hay and leather thick in the air. Before I could even tie Thunder’s reins to the post, a deep voice cut through the dusk. *"Frederick of Black Hollow, I presume?"* I turned to see Sir Roland, a knight clad in polished steel and a cloak the color of dried blood, his face lined with years of battles. His armor bore the scars of a hundred duels, and his gaze was as sharp as the blade at his hip. He didn’t wait for an answer. *"The Master-at-Arms has been expecting you. But don’t think this makes you special. You’re just another squire in a sea of them."* I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around the reins. *"I—I just want to learn."* Sir Roland’s lips curled into something between a smirk and a grimace. *"So do we all. But learning doesn’t mean you’ll survive."* He jerked his chin toward the castle. *"Inside. Before the wolves start circling."* The weight of his words settled over me like a second cloak. I followed him into the stables, where the air was thick with the murmur of grooms and the lowing of restless horses. Sir Roland didn’t slow his pace. *"First lesson? Don’t underestimate the quiet ones. And don’t trust anyone who offers you a drink before you’ve seen the cup."* I trailed behind him, my heart pounding, already knowing this wouldn’t be easy. </nc-section> --- <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Knight’s Challenge" data-color="green"> The moment I stepped off Thunder’s back, the stable doors swung open, and a gust of warm air rushed out, carrying the scent of oats and sweat. Sir Roland stood there, his armor gleaming under the lantern light, his broadsword resting casually against his shoulder. His face was kind, but his eyes held a challenge. *"Well, well,"* he rumbled, stepping forward and clapping me on the shoulder. *"The little squire who rode all the way from Black Hollow. I’ve heard a lot about you."* I blinked, surprised by the warmth in his voice. *"You have?"* *"Aye,"* he chuckled, leading me toward a stall where a massive warhorse stood chewing on hay. *"They say you’ve got the heart of a lion and the hands of a surgeon. But words are cheap. Let’s see what you’ve got."* He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a rusted dagger, its blade pitted with age. *"Take this. And prove you’re not just another boy with a pretty story."* I hesitated, then took the dagger, my fingers brushing against the cold metal. *"What do I do?"* Sir Roland’s grin was sharp. *"Survive. And don’t drop it."* He tossed a sack of grain into the stall, and the warhorse reared, snorting. *"Start there."* I stepped forward, heart racing, as the beast charged. The dagger felt heavy in my hand, but I raised it anyway. </nc-section> --- <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Unspoken Warning" data-color="blue"> The stables were quiet when I dismounted, the only sound the distant clinking of harnesses and the occasional snort of a horse. Then, from the shadows, Sir Roland emerged, his silhouette framed by the flickering torchlight. He didn’t speak at first, just studied me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. *"You’re early,"* he finally said, his voice low. *"Most squires take days to reach the castle."* I shifted under his gaze. *"I didn’t want to waste time."* A faint smile touched his lips, but his eyes remained unreadable. *"Time is the one thing no one here has enough of."* He stepped closer, his armor whispering against the straw. *"You’re not like the others, Frederick. They come here with dreams of glory. You come here because you have to."* I frowned. *"What do you mean?"* Sir Roland’s voice dropped to a whisper. *"Because you’re the last of your blood. And that makes you dangerous."* He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small, leather-bound book, its cover worn and cracked. *"The Chronicles of the Last Dragon. They say it’s been hidden for centuries. And now, it’s here."* My breath caught. *"You know about it?"* *"Aye,"* he said, pressing the book into my hands. *"And if you’re half as clever as they say, you’ll keep it safe. From everyone."* He turned toward the castle, his voice dropping to a growl. *"But first, you’ll learn why some doors should never be opened."* I clutched the book, my mind racing, as he led me into the castle’s shadowed halls. </nc-section>