Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAM1YTFE7EFEK6S9YA3SVM

<nc-section data-title="The Knight of the Crimson Scar" data-color="red"> Thunder skidded to a halt, his hooves kicking up a spray of golden dust as the stable yard came into view. I’d barely dismounted when a voice barked like a cracked whip: “Squire! *Stay* on that horse until I say otherwise.” Sir Roland stood at the edge of the stalls, his armor glinting like a forge-fire in the late-afternoon sun—red plate etched with silver runes, a scar splitting his left eyebrow from temple to jaw. He didn’t smile, but his eyes, a hard gray, lingered on Thunder, nostrils flaring. “That horse’s got bits of the old forest in him,” he said, leaning closer, “gave our farrier a gash deep enough to see bone last week. You’re brave to claim him.” I fumbled with the reins, heat rising to my cheeks. “He’s *my* horse, Sir. We… we shared a storm on the way here.” Roland’s laugh was a gravelslide. “Storms don’t care who rides ’em. Now down. And no slouching—squires who slouch make knights look weak. By the gates, you’ll meet the steward. He’ll assign your gear. But first—” He unclasped a leather satchel from his saddle, slinging it over my shoulder. “For the blisters. Your father wrote. Said you’d need these.” My breath hitched. My father, a blacksmith, had never been to the castle. But Roland’s thumb brushed the edge of the satchel, and I saw the flicker of respect in his eyes. “He’s a stubborn man,” the knight said, mounting his own stallion—a lean, black thing that reared slightly at the sound of Thunder’s whicker—and Thendi (Sir Roland’s horse) tossed its head. “But he makes good steel. By rights, you shouldn’t be here. Too soft, maybe. But you’re not *useless*.” He cantered off, his horse’s hooves drumming the cobblestones, and I smiled, a warm weight in my chest. For the first time, I didn’t feel like a fish out of water. I felt… *seen*. <nc-section data-title="The Knight of the Whispering Pines" data-color="green"> The stable door creaked open as I led Thunder toward the shade of an ancient oak, its leaves rustling like whispered secrets. A knight stepped out, his armor dulled by years of use—olive leather, scabbard carved with ivy, a cloak the color of moss. “You must be Frederick,” he said, and when he smiled, his teeth were as white as dandelion fluff. I dismounted, tripping over the stirrup. “Y-yes, sir. Thank you for waiting.” He waved a hand, gesturing to the hayloft where grooms mucked out stalls, their brooms making a soft *shush* sound. “Waiting’s what we do here. No hurry to break a squire’s spirit—they’ve got their whole lives to be tough. Sit.” He plopped down on a bale of hay, patting the space beside him. “Tell me about your ride. Did you see the willow grove where the river bends?” I sat, my legs crossing awkwardly. “I did, sir. The water was so clear I could see pebbles glowing like jewels.” Roland’s eyes lit up. “Ah, that’s the best part—water never lies. It tells you where the earth is soft, where the rocks hide. Squires are like that, too. Soft at first, but if you let ’em drink deep, they’ll grow strong. Your father mentioned that willow grove, didn’t he?” My mother had. “He said it’s where I learned to ride, back when I was small.” “Then he knows what he’s about,” Roland said, plucking a blade of grass and twirling it between his fingers. “Stables aren’t just for horses—they’re for teaching. You watch a horse, and you learn to read a soul. Same with a squire. Your father mended my sword once, you know. After I fell in the moat—foolish boy, chasing a fox. The blade was bent, but your father bent it back. Said metal’s only as good as the hand that forges it. So don’t you worry. We’ll muddle through. Together.” He stood, brushing grass from his cloak, and held out a hand. “Come. The kitchen’s making rabbit stew. You’ll need your strength if you want to learn to wield a sword *and* keep up with the hounds on a hunt. Weak squires get eaten by hounds. Strong ones eat the hounds.” I took his hand, warm and calloused, and felt the green life of the grove wrap around us like a blanket. <nc-section data-title="The Knight of the Azure Veil" data-color="blue"> The afternoon sky was a washed-out blue when I dismounted, the air thick with the tang of damp earth and jasmine. A man stood at the edge of the stables, his armor polished to the hue of a summer lake, a blue velvet veil draped over his left arm—a gift from the queen, he’d later say, for “fighting like a storm cloud.” “Frederick,” he said, his voice low and steady, like the murmur of a mountain stream. He nodded at Thunder, who was grazing peacefully, munching on a sprig of clover. “Your horse is calm. Calm horses mean calm squires. Calm squires mean knights who don’t have to apologize for their failures.” I swallowed. “I… I tried to stay calm, sir. The road was rough, but I held on.” Roland smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Good. Calm isn’t the same as fearless. Fearless men make mistakes. Calm men learn from them. Your father was a calm man,” he said, glancing at a tattered portrait pinned to the stable wall—a blacksmith with calloused hands, a kind mouth. “Quiet. But when he spoke, the forge fell silent. The men said he had a ‘voice of the sky’—deep, unshakable. I can see him in you.” He unclasped a silver key from his belt, handing it to me. “This unlocks the armory. Don’t rush to take a sword. Take a hammer. A squire who understands metal will understand the heart of a knight. You’ll find the key in a box marked with a raven. Don’t turn it until you’re ready to swear your oath. Rushing oaths leads to broken vows.” We walked together toward the castle, the wind lifting Roland’s veil for a moment to reveal a face lined but serene, his right eye—blind, from a battle wound—closed. “Why the veil?” I asked, before I could stop myself. “To remind me that not all battles are fought with swords,” he said, and the sun broke through the clouds, gilding his shoulder. “Some are fought with patience. With *trust*. You’ll learn that here, Frederick. We don’t just train knights. We build something better. Something blue.” He placed a hand on my shoulder, his touch cool as the lake, and for the first time, I didn’t feel small. I felt *anchored*—like I’d found my place in the vast, blue sky of the kingdom. Each version leans into the color’s symbolism—red for intensity and mentorship, green for growth and nature, blue for calm and trust—while keeping Roland’s core character as a wise, steady guide for Frederick.