Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9K1TEZWBPCBATX4JZRWX7

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Red Greeting" data-color="red"> The sun dipped below the western spires, painting the sky in strokes of crimson, when I reined Thunder to a halt near the stables. Steam curled from his flanks, and his hooves stank of fresh hay and sweat—a scent that sharpened my senses. Before I could dismount, a shadow fell over the paddock: a knight in armor so weathered it seemed part of the stone itself. Iron clinked like distant thunder as he approached, his voice a low rumble, *"Squire?"* It was Sir Roland. His left cheek bore a jagged scar, slit by a dragon’s claw in the war against the Wastes, I’d heard. Now, that scar stretched as he frowned at my tattered surcoat—mine, not the castle’s. *"First time in a stable, squire?"* he asked, not unkindly, but his eyes never left the blacksmith’s hammering in the yard. When I shifted, awkward, he nodded at my horse. *"Thunder’s a good beast,"* he said, and I noticed he’d reached out to stroke the stallion’s muzzle. The horse nickered, ears pricked. *"But good horses need good hands. You’ve got one calloused from a plow, lad—prove it’s more than that by sundown. Polish his shoes. Clean his cut—*that* one, the one above his fetlock. Don’t let crud fester. And if I hear you neglect him…"* He trailed off, pointing a finger, but his lips twitched. *"Prove you’re not just here to watch banners. Prove you’re here to *fight*."* With that, he turned on his heel, leaving a trail of iron clatter. I stared at his back, then at Thunder, who now nuzzled my hand. The air smelled of saddle leather and blood—old blood, but still sharp. Red. Always red, with Roland. <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Green Greeting" data-color="green"> The stables breathed with the day’s end—shhh of munching oats, the creak of a loosened hinge, and the low whine of a blacksmith’s forge. I slid from Thunder’s back, my boots sinking into soft earth spiked with clover, when a voice like warm rain dripped through the haze: *"Cutting it close, aren’t we?"* Sir Roland stood in the doorway of the largest stall, a rake in one hand and a bale of hay in the other. His armor was dented, but polished to a dull green sheen, as if the metal had drunk the grass. He wore a tunic of field-green wool, patched at the elbows, and his hair—once black, now silver—was tied back with a leather cord. *"Aye, sir,"* I said, flushing. *"My father’s cart broke; I had to run."* Roland set the hay down, clapping his hands on his apron. *"Cart trouble? Nicer than the time my mount bolted with a squire clinging to its tail. Nearly fell in the west moat. That squire? He grew up to be the kingdom’s best healer. Ran to the wounded first, always. Paraded through battlefields with a healer’s satchel, laughing like the war was a feast."* He scratched Thunder behind the ears, and the stallion sighed, leaning into his hand. *"Horses don’t care if you’re late, squire. They care if you’re *there*. Now—"* He held out a brush, its bristles stiff with green grass. *"That mane’s a nest. Tame it, and we’ll talk duty. Tangle it, and we’ll talk why your mother sent you here. (She wrote. Said you’d ‘stumble into a dragon’s lair if left to your own devices.’)"* He winked, then turned to a mare in the next stall, cooing as he peeled a carrot from his pocket. The world smelled of rain-wet stone and clover, and I found myself grinning as I began to brush Thunder. Green. With Roland, it grew on you. <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Blue Greeting" data-color="blue"> The wind off the river carried the salt of the sea—we’d reached the coast, then—and the air felt thin, like a breath held. I tied Thunder to an oak post, its bark blue-tinged with lichen, when a shadow fell across the saddlebag I’d slung over his back. Not a shadow of a man, but a presence—slow, deliberate, as if weighing every move. *"Frederick,"* a voice said, and I spun. Sir Roland stood there, his armor blue in the evening light, as if forged from the sky. His cloak was indigo, hood up, and his sword hilt glinted like a drop of mercury. *"Your mother sent a letter. Pressed between the pages of a *bestiary*—the one with the water dragon. She wrote: *‘My son is curious; let curiosity not kill him, but teach him.’*"* I stared at him. *"You read it?"* *"I have a knack."* He stepped closer, and I caught the scent of seaweed and starflower. *"Curiosity’s a dangerous thing. The Kindler, once, was curious about fire. Now his castle’s ash. The Huntress? Curious about love. Now she’s a ghost, haunting every tavern that serves wine."* He stopped, tilting his head. *"But she also said you drew. Sketched the horses at your father’s farm. You still draw?"* *"A little, sir. Just—"* *"Prove it. Later."* He nodded at the saddlebag. *"Your gear’s inside. The leather’s worn; you stitched the tear yourself. Smart boy. Waste not, want not. That’s not knighthood—it’s survival. And survival’s the first lesson."* He paused, looking at the river now, where a fishing boat bobbed like a leaf. *"My first squire drew maps. Obsessed with them. Thought he’d find a way to ‘bend’ the mountains. He died at the Thorn Pass, arrow through the throat. I buried him with a compass. It’s in my study, above my desk. Sometimes, I still see his face when I turn the pages. Reminds me: a squire’s not just a man with a sword. He’s a *story*. Don’t let them forget that."* He turned to leave, his blue cloak rippling like a wave. I touched the saddlebag, where my sketchbook pressed against my sword hilt. Blue. Calm, but deep—full of things that stayed hidden. And Roland… he was a storm in a blue sky. Each version leans into its color’s mood—red’s intensity, green’s warmth, blue’s mystery—while grounding the greeting in distinct character beats for Sir Roland and intimate, sensory details for Frederick’s arrival.