Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAZ9HMKJWBGGXSGR3SW7YT

Here are three distinct prose sections following your instructions, each with a unique tone and emphasis: --- <nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Weight of Expectations" data-color="red"> The clatter of hooves on cobblestones faded as I dismounted Thunder, my boots sinking slightly into the damp earth near the stables. The scent of hay and leather filled the air, mingling with the faint tang of sweat from the horses inside. Before I could even adjust my gloves, a deep voice cut through the quiet. "Frederick of Black Hollow, I presume?" Sir Roland stood before me, his armor gleaming under the fading light. His face was a map of battle scars, each one a story I couldn’t yet read. His sword, *Dawn’s Edge*, rested against his hip, its hilt wrapped in worn leather. "The castle has been expecting you since dawn." I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the sweat prickling my neck. "Yes, my lord. The letter from Lord Aldric arrived just before I left." Sir Roland’s sharp eyes appraised me, lingering on the frayed hem of my tunic and the way I held myself—too stiff, too eager. "You’re late," he said, not unkindly. "The king’s knights don’t wait for those who dither." He gestured toward the stables. "Thunder’s a fine mount, but he’ll need fresh oats before he’s fit for the training grounds. And you"—he turned, his voice dropping to a growl—"you’ll follow me to the armory. We start with weight training at first light. No excuses." I nodded, my throat tight. The weight of his gaze felt like a second sword at my back. For the first time, I wondered if I’d made a mistake leaving Black Hollow. </nc-section> --- <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Unspoken Bond" data-color="green"> The stables were quiet when I tied Thunder’s reins to the post, but the moment I stepped into the dim light, Sir Roland was there, his presence filling the space like a promise. His armor was polished to a mirror shine, the silver inlays of his pauldrons catching the lantern’s glow. He exhaled slowly, as if sensing my nerves. "You’re Frederick," he said, not as a question but a statement. His voice was rough, like gravel under a boot, but there was warmth beneath it—something almost like approval. "The boy who rode all day without stopping." I blinked. "I—I didn’t want to waste time." Sir Roland chuckled, low and unexpected. "No, you didn’t." He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "Between you and me, I’ve been waiting for someone like you. The last squire I trained was a sniveling rat who cried when his sword slipped. You?" He tapped his chest. "You’ve got fire in you. That’s rare." I hesitated, then forced a smile. "Thank you, sir." He clapped me on the shoulder, his grip firm. "Come on, then. The king’s knights don’t have time for small talk. But first"—he led me to a stall where a massive warhorse stood, its breath steaming in the cold air—"you’re riding with me tomorrow. And if you’re half as good as you seem, we’ll have you sparring by week’s end." The weight of his words settled over me like a second skin. For the first time since leaving home, I didn’t feel like an outsider. </nc-section> --- <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The First Test" data-color="blue"> The stables were empty except for the distant clinking of a farrier’s hammer, but Sir Roland was waiting just outside the door, his silhouette sharp against the twilight. His armor was simple—no excessive embellishments, just the practical steel of a man who had seen too much war. When he spoke, his voice cut through the silence like a blade unsheathed. "Frederick of Black Hollow," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You’re either the most foolish or the bravest squire I’ve ever met." I stiffened. "I—I didn’t mean to be late." Sir Roland’s lips twitched, almost a smile. "No, you didn’t." He stepped forward, his boots crunching on the gravel. "But being late isn’t the worst sin here. Cowardice is." He gestured toward the training grounds, where the first torches were being lit. "The king’s knights don’t tolerate weakness. If you want to train with us, you’ll earn your place." I swallowed. "How?" His eyes gleamed in the dark. "By surviving the first trial." He turned toward the armory, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Tomorrow at dawn, you’ll face the *Black Maw*—a beast that hasn’t been tamed in a century. If you walk away alive, you’ll be mine to train. If you don’t..." He let the sentence hang, unspoken but heavy. I met his gaze. "I’ll walk away alive." Sir Roland’s nod was slow, approving. "Then let’s get you armed." He led me inside, the weight of the challenge pressing down on me like the sky above. For the first time, I understood what it meant to be a knight—not just a squire, not just a name on a scroll, but a man who would either rise or fall under the king’s banner. </nc-section>