Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB61K4FKTRVYY3JBKTZ7AM

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Gruff Stable Challenge" data-color="red"> I’d barely swung my leg over Thunder’s saddle to dismount when a sharp bark cut through the stables’ hay-scented hum. Sir Roland—his crimson cloak frayed at the cuffs, armor dented from a recent skirmish, a fresh scar slashing his left eyebrow—stood planted beside a snorting war mare, his fists curled at his sides. “Squire,” he growled, nodding at Thunder’s lathered flanks, “you think a knight’s mount deserves to be left panting in the dust while you gawk at castle banners?” He kicked a loose hay bale toward my feet, the dry stems scattering. “Before you so much as glance at the training yard, you will rub down every horse in this stable—twice— and mend the torn bridle of that mare. Slackness here is death on the battlefield. Prove you’re not a waste of my time.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Foal’s Gentle Lesson" data-color="green"> The clatter of Thunder’s hooves on the stable stones faded into the soft nickering of a foal as I dismounted. Sir Roland knelt beside a straw-lined stall, his green tunic smudged with horsehair, dabbing wild clover salve on the foal’s scraped foreleg. He looked up with a warm smile, his calloused hands pausing to brush a stray dandelion from the foal’s mane. “Frederick,” he said, gesturing for me to join him, “I watched you soothe Thunder’s skittishness as you rode—few squires notice when their mount’s hooves catch on gopher mounds.” The stables’ wooden beams were tangled with climbing ivy, and a jar of mint leaves sat on the stall door for calming spooked horses. “Tending to a horse is not just duty—it’s kinship. Help me wrap this foal’s leg, and I’ll teach you which herbs heal a mount’s aches faster than any armor mends a knight’s wounds.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Twilight Stable Rumor" data-color="blue"> A faint blue lantern’s glow guided me to the stables, where Sir Roland leaned against a weathered oak post, staring at a faded map scrawled with ink that had bleeded to a pale cerulean. He looked up as I dismounted Thunder, his eyes soft as the twilight sky seeping through the stable slats. “You traveled the western road,” he said, not a question—his gaze had caught the dust of the moorlands on my boots. “Did you hear the villagers whispering of a shadow over the Whispering Woods?” He tapped the map’s blank western edge, where a tiny dragon sketch was half-erased. “I did not greet you at the gates because knighthood’s true lessons start not with swords, but with listening. Tether Thunder, and I’ll tell you why the last dragon’s legacy haunts these stables— and why your training is not just about armor and lances.” </nc-section>