Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYABM7NZD03E0Z6HP58WE8Q

Here are three alternate sections, each with a distinct tone and color palette: <nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Red Knight" data-color="red"> Sir Roland meets Frederick near the stables—though "meets" feels too gentle a word. He stands by a weathered sorrel stallion, his chainmail glinting like molten copper in the dying sun, a scar splitting his left eyebrow "from a troll in the Fringe," he’ll later boast. The knight’s voice is a low rumble, edged with red-hot impatience as he claps Frederick’s shoulder. "You’re late, squire. The stable boy swears you watered your horse *after* mucking his stall—slackness in the small things is the rot of great failure." But his eyes, a sharp ashen blue, soften when he nods at Thunder, who nickers and nuzzles Frederick’s palm. "Sergeant says you mended his horseshoe himself. That’s a start. Now—off with that squire’s tunic. You’ll wear my old surcoat till you earn your own. No more frills. This isn’t a tourney, it’s a war." He tosses a blood-red surcoat over his shoulder, the fabric stitched with a silver wolf. Frederick’s fingers brush the material, warm as a forge, and for a moment, he sees the knight not as a drill sergeant, but as a guardian—scars and all. <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Green Greeting" data-color="green"> The stables hum with life—hay dust hangs in the golden afternoon light, and a foal darts between hinds, its coat as green as a summer meadow. Sir Roland is here, too, his leather jerkin patched with faded green fabric (to "ward off envy," he grins), leaning against a manger to scratch a palomino’s ears. He looks up, his smile a crinkle of years, and calls, "Took you long enough, squire—Thunder’s been complaining about his oats. Says you’ve got *excellent* posture for a man who’s probably never lifted a sword." Frederick fumbles an apology, but Roland waves it off, clapping his back so hard he nearly loses his balance. "Parent wrote, did they? Says you’re ‘steadfast as a beech tree’—heh, bit hyperbolic, but I’ll take it. Stable boy says you fed the old mare a sugar cube *instead* of a flake of hay. Smart. Horses don’t need choice—they need trust. You’ve got that." He plucks a dandelion from the dirt and tucks it behind Frederick’s ear. "Off to the armory. And keep that tunic clean—mothers hate blood, I know. But never let them see you *fear* it. Fear makes you slow. Now *go*—Thunder’s already practicing his paw." The foal trots over, sniffs Frederick’s hand, and nuzzles his palm. Somewhere, a blackbird sings. <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Blue Squire" data-color="blue"> Rain streaks the sky, a gunmetal blue, as Sir Roland approaches. He stands under the stables’ thatched roof, his sword belt looped over one arm, a scroll in the other—his armor is plain, unadorned, save for a blue enamel crest of a wave. "Frederick," he says, but his tone is soft, like a breath on a windowpane, not a command. "I’ve been waiting. The grooms said you fixed the carriage wheel without a second tool. Clever." He steps closer, and Frederick notices the knight’s hands—calloused, but with ink stains under the nails, as if he reads as much as he fights. "My squire once fell into a ditch because he thought ‘pride outruns skill.’ Don’t be him." He unfolds the scroll, revealing a watercolor sketch of a blue dragon—wings outstretched, eyes like storm clouds. "This is a sigil of our house. We don’t *hunt* dragons, you know. We *protect* them. Your father… he understood that. Hard to believe he’s gone." The rain eases, and a sliver of sunlight hits the dragon, turning its scales to sapphire. Roland’s gaze lingers on Frederick’s face. "You have his eyes. Quiet, but unflinching. That’s the blue of a guardian. Now—let’s find you a sword that doesn’t weigh you down." Thunder nickers, and Frederick feels it—the first spark of belonging, bright as a storm’s end. Each section leans into its color’s symbolism—red for intensity, green for growth, blue for wisdom—while grounding the meeting in Roland’s distinct personality and Frederick’s journey of self-discovery.