Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB9181KR5DG8GDNW4KHK1E

Here are three distinct prose sections to continue the story, each with a unique tone and direction: --- ### **Version 1 (red) – Dark and Foreshadowing** <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Weight of Steel" data-color="red"> The castle loomed ahead, its towers clawing at the twilight sky. Thunder’s hooves kicked up dust as I reined him in near the stables, where a lone figure stood in the flickering torchlight—Sir Roland, his armor blackened as if scorched by unseen fires. His helm was pushed back, revealing a face lined with scars, one eye milky white, the other sharp as a blade. *"You’re late,"* he rumbled, his voice like gravel shifting underfoot. *"The king’s patience is thin, and his knights grow restless."* He stepped forward, his gauntleted hand resting on the hilt of his sword—a weapon that had seen too many battles. *"But then, so are you, boy. That’s why you’re here."* I swallowed hard. The air smelled of damp hay and something metallic, like old blood. *"I—I didn’t mean to be late, sir. The road was longer than I expected."* Sir Roland’s good eye narrowed. *"Roads don’t lie, Frederick. People do."* He turned, his cloak billowing behind him like a crow’s wings. *"Come. The others are waiting. And they don’t suffer fools—or tardiness."* As we walked toward the great hall, the distant sound of drums echoed through the castle walls. Not the cheerful beat of a feast, but something slower, heavier. A warning. </nc-section> --- ### **Version 2 (green) – Hopeful and Mentorship** <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Knight’s Welcome" data-color="green"> Thunder’s ears twitched as we approached the stables, where a broad-shouldered knight in silvered armor leaned against a post, polishing his sword with slow, deliberate strokes. Sir Roland grinned when he saw me, his face splitting into lines of genuine warmth. *"Ah, Frederick!"* he called, wiping his hands on his tunic. *"Took you long enough. I was starting to think you’d gotten lost—or worse, decided to turn back!"* He clapped me on the shoulder, his grip firm but not crushing. *"Name’s Roland, by the way. And if you’re half as eager as your letters suggest, you’re in for a treat."* He led me toward the training grounds, where other squires sparred under the watchful eyes of seasoned knights. *"Now, first rule of squire life: never let anyone see you sweat. Second rule?"* He winked. *"Always ask questions. Even the stupid ones."* As we walked, he pointed out the training yard, the armory, and the old oak tree where the knights gathered for strategy lessons. *"You’ll learn swordplay, yes, but also how to read a battlefield like a book. And trust me, boy—some of the best lessons aren’t fought with steel."* A gust of wind carried the scent of pine and fresh-turned earth, and for the first time since leaving home, I felt something like belonging. </nc-section> --- ### **Version 3 (blue) – Mysterious and Prophetic** <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Stablemaster’s Warning" data-color="blue"> The stables were quiet, the only sound the distant clatter of hooves on cobblestone. Sir Roland stood near the farthest stall, his back to me, stroking the nose of a massive black destrier. The horse’s breath came in deep, rhythmic sighs, as if it knew something I didn’t. *"You’re early,"* he said without turning. *"Or late. Time’s a strange thing here."* I hesitated. *"Sir?"* He finally faced me, his face half-lit by the dim lanterns. *"The king’s knights aren’t just training you, Frederick. They’re preparing you for something. And not everyone who enters these walls leaves the same way they came."* A chill ran down my spine. *"What do you mean?"* Sir Roland’s voice dropped to a whisper. *"There are whispers of a dragon. Not in the skies, but in the shadows. And dragons don’t just burn—they *choose*."* He reached into his cloak and pressed a small, smooth stone into my palm. *"Keep this. It’ll either save you or get you killed."* Before I could ask what it was, the stable doors creaked open, and the sound of booted footsteps echoed toward us. Sir Roland’s expression hardened. *"Time to meet the others."* As we stepped into the torchlit corridor, the stone in my hand pulsed faintly—warm, like a heartbeat. </nc-section>