Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9KH21M065VE7S1342SF22

### Version 1 (red) <nc-section data-title="Sir Roland of the Iron Fist" data-color="red"> Thunder skidded to a halt outside the stables, hooves kicking up a spurt of dust that caught the last golden light of sunset. I fumbled with the reins, my palms slick, as the heavy wooden door creaked open. A man stepped out, broad-shouldered, his leather jerkin patched at the elbows with the badge of a silver wolf—Roland’s house sigil. He was older than I’d imagined, his face carved with the lines of a swordfighter: a vertical scar splitting his left eyebrow, a gash along his jaw that had knuckled a foe’s blade. But his eyes were sharp, like flint, and he narrowed them at me before I could dismount. “Frederick,” he boomed, striding over. The air reeked of pine pitch and horse sweat, and he didn’t wait for a reply. He clapped a calloused hand on Thunder’s rump, and the stallion nickered, rubbing his head against Roland’s shoulder. “You’ve got the squire’s posture—too straight, like a blade that’s never been honed. Loosen your shoulders, lad. A knight who can’t relax with his mount will never hear it scream when the enemy’s axe comes down.” He paused, his thumb brushing the horse’s forelock. “Thunder here’s mellowed since the last pup tried to ride him, but don’t let him fool you. He’ll test you. Bite. Kick. If he doesn’t, you’re not trying hard enough.” I opened my mouth, but he held up a finger, his gaze flicking to my chapped hands. “You’ve ridden hard. Water’s behind the barn. But tomorrow, we start with the longsword. No lessons. Just you and the practice yard. If you can stand against my squire without dropping it, we’ll talk about bread and bed. Now move—he’s got a quarterstaff waiting for you.” With that, he turned, whistling low to a bay mare tethered nearby, and vanished into the dusk. I stayed where I was, staring at the scar on his back, wondering if I’d ever earn the right to stand beside him. ### Version 2 (green) <nc-section data-title="The Stable Master’s Heart" data-color="green"> Thunder snorted as we entered the courtyard, shying at a fluttering sparrow, and I laughed despite myself. The stables lay on the castle’s edge, a low, warm structure of timber and thatch, its roof dotted with dormer windows that let in the evening light. Smoke curled from a chimney, and inside, I could hear the soft *clop-clop* of a blacksmith’s hammer. The door was thrown open by a smaller man with a bushy white beard, his tunic stained with oats and honey—Sir Roland, if the silver acorn pendant around his neck was anything to go by. “Ah, the young lion!” he said, clapping me on the back. His hand was warm, calloused but gentle, like the paw of a well-tempered dog. “I’ve been waiting. The stable cats have been chattering all afternoon—they say a squire with a horse like that will ‘make the stars lean down to watch.’” He stepped aside, gesturing for me to follow. Inside, the stables hummed with life: a palomino nickered from her stall, her coat glowing like burnished copper; a foal bounded between bales of hay, nipping at a barn owl roosting on a beam. “Thunder’s a fine steed, but even the best stallion needs a squire who knows his heart,” Roland said, running a finger along the palomino’s muzzle. “See this? She limped after a fox trap last month. You’d think a knight would send her to market, but I tend her myself. Horses don’t just carry us—they *teach* us. To be patient. To see a hurt before it becomes a wound.” He knelt to adjust the stirrup on my saddle, his fingers moving with a precision that felt like a prayer. “Tomorrow, we’ll start with the grooming. Not the quick, lazy kind—*your* kind. You’ll brush Thunder until his coat shines, and listen to him talk. He’ll tell you when he’s tired. When he’s hungry. When he smells fear. And when you listen? That’s when you start learning to fight.” He stood, grinning, and tossed me a braided rope of oats. “First, eat. Then sleep. The castle’s kitchens still have bread, and the old cook, Maera, makes honey cakes that’ll make your toes curl. But remember—” his voice softened, “—a knight isn’t made in the swordplay. It’s made in the *tending*.” He turned to lead Thunder to his stall, the foal darting ahead to nudge his hand, and I stood there, the rope of oats heavy in my hands, already eager to do as he’d said. ### Version 3 (blue) <nc-section data-title="The Knight of the Hushed Secret" data-color="blue"> The stables loomed like a shadow at the edge of the courtyard, its walls cloaked in ivy that glowed faintly in the twilight—magic, I thought, though I could not say how I knew. Thunder’s hooves made no sound on the cobblestones, as if the stone itself had leaned in to listen. The door swung open before I could reach for the latch, and a man stood there, taller than me, his armor dented and tarnished, as if it had been worn for a hundred years. But his eyes—oh, his eyes—were blue as the stormy sea, and they held me like a net, leaving me breathless. “Frederick,” he said, and the name felt like a key turning in a lock. “I’ve been expecting you. The old tales were right—*they* always are. You bring the *stillness*.” He stepped aside, and I saw him: not a squire’s drab tunic, but a cloak dyed in indigo, stitched with stars and a dragon’s claw. *The Last Dragon*, I realized, and my pulse quickened. “You think I’m here for the sword,” he continued, gesturing to the empty yard beyond, “but you’re here for the *silence*. The kind that comes when a squire stops talking and starts *seeing*.” He nodded at Thunder, who’d already nuzzled his hand, his nose cool and damp with an old magic. “He’s not just a horse. He’s a *warden*. The dragons once chose beasts to guard their lairs. Yours chose *you*.” He drew a dagger from his belt, its blade etched with runes that glowed blue, and pressed it into my palm. “Not for fighting. For listening. Tomorrow, you’ll walk the castle walls. You’ll hear the secrets it holds—the whispers of the stone, the sigh of the wind through ivy. And you’ll *answer* them. Because power isn’t in the blade, lad. It’s in the *knowledge*.” The dagger burned, not with heat, but with a cold fire, and I felt it settle in my bones, a promise. “The last dragon is gone, but its heart remains. And it beats in *you*.” He turned, his cloak billowing, and vanished inside, leaving me alone with Thunder, the dagger still warm in my hand, the ivy glowing brighter, as if the night itself were holding its breath. Each version leans into distinct tones—red’s intensity, green’s warmth, blue’s mystery—while grounding the meeting in sensory detail and character. Roland’s personality shifts to match, hinting at the varied paths Frederick’s journey might take.