Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8SR6B2PTNZFQ8Q1JGTSKS

<nc-section data-title="Near the Stables: Sir Roland's Greeting (Red)" data-color="red"> The stable yard reeked of hay and horse sweat, but the air crackled with Roland’s presence. I reined Thunder to a halt, my boots skidding on the loose stones, and found the knight leaning against a weathered oak post, his armor flecked with blackened rust—a battle scar, I suspected, from the wars beyond the northern border. He squinted at me as I dismounted, a scar splitting his left eyebrow lifting in a half-smile. “Took you long enough, squire,” he boomed, though his gloved hand clapped my shoulder harder than necessary. “Thought you’d take the whole day to gawk at the spires. Don’t let the tile on the great hall blind you—*that’s* where the training starts, not in awe of mortar.” He gestured to Thunder, running a calloused finger along the stallion’s glossy neck. “Nice horse. Strong in the quarters. Good. You’ll need more than a pretty mount when you’re breaking knights who think squires are just foot warmers.” His voice sharpened, but when I flinched, he grunted and stepped back. “Relax. The first lesson tomorrow? We’ll test how well you can hold on—*and* how well you don’t cry when you fall. Deal?” Before I could stammer an answer, he clapped his gauntleted hands once, and a groomsman trotted over, leading Thunder to a stall lined with straw. “See that groom, Mila? Keep his saddle tight. And squire—” He jabbed a finger at my tunic, which still bore the stain of the inn’s mead from last night. “Launder that. A knight’s squire doesn’t look like a tavern brawler. Not *yet*.” He turned to leave, but paused, glancing back as the sun dipped below the walls. “And Frederick?” His voice softened, just for a moment. “Don’t make me regret taking you. The kingdom’s got enough weaklings. You in?” Thunder nickered from his stall, as if laughing. I squared my shoulders. “Aye, Sir Roland. In.” <nc-section data-title="Near the Stables: Sir Roland's Greeting (Green)" data-color="green"> The stables smelled of fresh clover and young oats, their walls draped with ivy that snaked up to cradle a window box bursting with marigolds. When I dismounted, a dappled sunlight slanted through the rafters, highlighting a man with a beard streaked with silver, mending a halter with nimble fingers. “Took you to the flowering of the blackthorn, did it?” he said, not looking up. his accent thick with the rolling vowels of the west. I blinked. “Pardon, Sir Roland?” He finally looked up, his eyes warm as fresh bread. “Word’s already come. Old Gareth sent a raven—said you were the lad with the scar on his cheek from falling off a cart. Bravery in a cart-driver, he called it. I call it *curious*.” He stood, brushing lint from his leather tunic, and nodded at Thunder. “That your mare? She’s got a filly’s heart—nervous, but brave. Good. Bravery’s like a seed. You don’t water it once; you let it grow.” He walked over, his boots silent on the grass-strewn ground, and pressed a small, smooth stone into my palm. “Keep this. From the river where I broke my first sword. If you ever wonder why you’re here, hold it. Not because it’s special—*because you are*. A squire’s not a soldier. You’re a gardener. You tend the courage, the loyalty, the *truth* in the men who’ll one day call you brother.” At that moment, a mare in a neighboring stall nickered, and her foal trotted over, nuzzling Thunder’s nose. Roland chuckled. “See? Even horses know when a seed’s worth planting. Now come—Mara’s waiting with your tack. And Frederick?” He winked. “Don’t let me catch you staring at the roses by the courtyard again. That’s not how gardens thrive. You’ve got work to do.” <nc-section data-title="Near the Stables: Sir Roland's Greeting (Blue)" data-color="blue"> The stables loomed like a shadow beneath the castle’s eastern wall, their roof cloaked in mist that curled between the beams like smoke. But when I tied Thunder, I heard a voice—low, steady—as if he were speaking to the wind. “Too late to turn back, squire,” it said. I spun. A man stood in the doorway, his armor polished to a sheen that caught the blue of the sky beyond, his cloak swirling like a storm cloud. But there was no coldness in his gaze; it was the blue of a summer sea, vast and calm. “Sir Roland?” I said, my throat tight. He nodded, stepping closer. “The boy who rides like the wind. Gareth said you’d come, but I didn’t think you’d bring a stallion that could outrun a wolf.” He extended a hand, his palm cool against mine. “I’m Roland. And you’re not just a squire. You’re the first in five years to ride into these gates *on your own*—no retainer, no cart. That’s rare. Rarer still is the way you held the reins when your horse reared at the gate. Not panic. Focus.” He led me to Thunder’s stall, where the horse nuzzled his hand, unafraid. “You see this?” Roland said, tracing a silver streak in Thunder’s mane. “That’s a shooting star, a sign. The old tales say they mark the birth of a knight who’ll either end a war or start one. Which will it be?” He met my eyes, his blue gaze intense. “I don’t know. But I’ll know by the end of the first day. You’ll either flinch… or *fight*.” He walked to the door, pausing. “The great hall’s cold tonight. Don’t let it freeze your spine, though. Bravery’s not about fire. It’s about the quiet resolve to stand when the world goes silent. You’ve got that, Frederick. Now prove you *use* it.” As he left, the mist shifted, and sunlight spilled through the stable door, gilding his cloak. Thunder nickered, as if in agreement. I clutched the stone Roland had pressed into my hand—smooth, cool, unyielding—and smiled. Each version leans into the assigned color (red: intensity, green: growth, blue: calm) while crafting distinct personalities for Sir Roland, ensuring the greeting feels organic to both him and Frederick’s journey.