Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY90XYF5EGKCA4WR8M72QFC

### Version 1 (red) <nc-section data-title="The Red Knight at the Stables" data-color="red"> Thunder skidded to a halt, hooves kicking up dust that hung in the red-tinged sunset, and I fumbled with the reins, my chest heaving. Before me loomed a stone trough, its edges chipped, and beside it stood a man who might have been carved from polished rubies—though not the kind that shine, but the kind that *bite*. Sir Roland’s armor was scarlet, dented with the marks of a hundred battles, a sword at his hip that seemed to hum with its own anger. His beard, streaked with gray, jutted like a storm cloud, and when he spoke, his voice was a crack of thunder: “You’re late, squire. A knight’s time is *precious*.” I bowed, my throat tight, and he grunted, reaching to pat Thunder’s neck. The stallion nickered, ears pricked, and Sir Roland’s gaze softened—just for a moment—before hardening again. “Your mother wrote you’re a slow learner,” he said, tapping my shoulder with a calloused hand. “But she also said you’ve got fire in you. Don’t let this place smother it.” He tossed a leather satchel my way; inside were a dagger, a tunic, and a hand-woven belt. “Stables first. Then the yard. You’ll muck stalls until your fingers bleed, and you’ll do it *smiling*. Now move.” He turned, his cape flaring like a dying star, and I watched him go, heart pounding. Red, I realized, wasn’t just a color. It was the heat of a sword, the taste of blood, and the promise that if I survived, I’d be something unbreakable. ### Version 2 (green) <nc-section data-title="The Green Knight and the Stallion" data-color="green"> Thunder nickered softly, sensing my tension, and I dismounted, my boots sinking into soft, clover-scented grass. Sir Roland was there, but not as I’d imagined—no polished armor, no stern glare. He wore a tunic the color of growing wheat, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and in his hands was a pitchfork, stabbing it into a pile of hay as if it were a foe. The air smelled of rain and fresh earth, and overhead, a sparrowhawk circled, its shadow glinting off the stables’ wooden beams. “Took you long enough, lad,” he said, grinning, and when he held out a hand, his palm was inked with dirt, his knuckles scraped. “Frederick, is it? Your da sent word—said you’d be stubborn as a mule, but kind. Better than stubborn, right?” I nodded, taking his hand, and he clapped my back, nearly knocking me off my feet. “Good. Stables aren’t just for horses—they’re for *learning*. You’ll feed them, groom them, and you’ll listen when they talk. They’re the first friends a knight makes.” He gestured to Thunder, who nuzzled my hand. “This one’s got spirit. Needs a rider with even more. You up for the job?” As he turned back to the hay, I noticed a patch of clover growing through a crack in the stone, green and vibrant, untouched by the dusty castle. Sir Roland wasn’t red; he was green—alive, messy, *growing*. And suddenly, the stables didn’t feel like a prison. They felt like a beginning. ### Version 3 (blue) <nc-section data-title="The Blue Knight and the Silent Pledge" data-color="blue"> The evening sky had turned the color of a stormless sea when I led Thunder to the stables, and the air hummed with a quiet weight, as if the world were holding its breath. Then I saw him: Sir Roland, leaning against the stone wall, his armor the color of twilight, his face gentle as a summer breeze. His eyes were blue, deep as a mountain lake, and when he met mine, there was no sharpness—only a kind of knowing, as if he’d been waiting for me my whole life. “You’re here,” he said, and his voice was like a ripple on water. He stepped forward, and I noticed his armor had no dents, no scars—only a patina of age, as if it had been worn for centuries, not battles. “Your mother… she wanted you to know that a knight’s strength isn’t in his sword. It’s in his *patience*.” He held out a small, smooth stone, blue as his eyes. “Carry this. When you’re tempted to rush, or to falter, hold it. Remember: every great story starts with a single step.” I took the stone, and as it touched my palm, it warmed, as if it held the sun. “She also said you’d test me,” I said, my voice steady. Sir Roland laughed, a sound like wind chimes. “Test is too harsh a word. *Teach*. Tomorrow, we’ll start with the basics: how to hold a sword, how to listen, how to *care*. But first—” He gestured to the horse. “Go. Let Thunder settle. I’ll be here when you’re ready. And when you are… we’ll talk about the dragon.” Blue, I thought, as I led Thunder into the stable, was the color of sky and sea, of infinity and promise. And somehow, standing there, I knew this was no ordinary quest. It was a story worth telling—and I was finally ready to begin. Each version leans into its color’s symbolism—red for passion and trial, green for growth and connection, blue for wisdom and legacy—while keeping the core of Sir Roland’s greeting near the stables.