Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9M4EV934HVSNN08FET8EA

Here are three distinct versions of the next section, each with its own tone and flavor: --- <nc-section data-title="The Weight of Expectations" data-color="red"> The clatter of hooves on cobblestones faded as I dismounted, my boots sinking slightly into the damp earth near the stables. Sir Roland stood there, his armor polished to a mirror shine, his silver-plated gauntlets resting on the hilt of his sword. His dark eyes, sharp as flint, assessed me with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. "Frederick of Black Hollow," he said, his voice low and gravelly, "I’ve heard much about you. But words are cheap. Show me what you’ve got." He didn’t wait for a reply. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed me a worn leather satchel. "Your gear. And don’t think I didn’t notice the way you handled Thunder. But skill with a horse won’t fill your belly when the real fight begins." A stable boy appeared, leading my horse away. Roland’s gaze followed Thunder’s retreating form before turning back to me, his expression unreadable. "First lesson? Trust is earned. And in this castle, trust is a luxury." He turned toward the training yard, his cape billowing behind him. "Follow me. We start tonight." </nc-section> --- <nc-section data-title="The Knight’s Test" data-color="green"> Sir Roland’s voice cut through the evening air like a blade through silk. "Ah, there you are, boy." He grinned, though his eyes held a spark of amusement that didn’t quite reach them. His armor was simpler than I expected—no gleaming plate, just sturdy leather reinforced with steel, practical for a man who spent more time in the field than in court. "Thunder’s a fine horse. But it’s not what you ride that makes you a knight. It’s what you *do*." He clapped me on the shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind. "Come on. I’ve got a surprise for you." He led me past the stables, his boots crunching on gravel, toward a cluster of training dummies and a ring of sparring swords. "You’ve got the look of a man who’s never held a blade. Let’s see if you’ve got the heart." He handed me a wooden practice sword, its weight familiar but its balance unfamiliar. "First, you’ll spar with my squire. Then, if you survive, we’ll see what you’re really made of." The squire—a lanky lad with a scar across his cheek—grinned. "Don’t hold back, Sir Roland. I want to see if this one’s got any fight in him." Roland chuckled. "Oh, he will. He just doesn’t know it yet." </nc-section> --- <nc-section data-title="The Shadow of the Past" data-color="blue"> Sir Roland’s presence loomed over me like the first shadow of dusk. His armor was blackened, not from battle stains but from something darker—years of wear and the weight of unspoken stories. He studied me with a quiet intensity, his voice barely above a murmur. "You’re not the first to come here with dreams of glory, Frederick. But few leave with their dreams intact." He gestured toward the stables, where Thunder stood patiently, his breath steady. "That horse of yours... he’s seen things. War. Betrayal. He knows fear. And he trusts you." Roland’s gaze flicked to mine, searching. "That’s rare. Very rare." A silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken questions. Finally, he exhaled, his breath visible in the cool air. "Tonight, you’ll train. Not with swords or shields, but with something harder—yourself. The castle’s walls hide more than just knights. They hide secrets. And secrets have a way of finding their way out." He turned toward the training grounds, his cape fluttering like a flag of warning. "Follow me. And remember: the last dragon isn’t just a myth. It’s a test." </nc-section>