Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8TKBSHWGXY0YQ5CTSY5BMV

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Greeting (Version 1)" data-color="red"> The stable doors swung open with a groan as I dismounted Thunder, my boots crunching against the dry hay scattered across the cobblestones. A towering figure emerged from the shadows — Sir Roland, his scarlet cloak billowing behind him like a war banner. His eyes were sharp, two cold grey stones that seemed to measure me in an instant and find me wanting. "So," he said, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder, "you are the boy they sent me." He circled me slowly, arms folded across his broad chest. "Small. Underfed. Soft hands." He stopped in front of me and leaned close. "I have broken stronger men than you, squire. The question is whether you are worth the effort of breaking." I met his gaze and refused to look away. Something flickered behind those stone-grey eyes — not warmth, but perhaps the faintest ember of respect. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Greeting (Version 2)" data-color="green"> The smell of hay and horses filled my lungs as I led Thunder toward the stables. The evening air was cooling quickly, and lanterns had begun to glow along the castle walls. It was then that I heard a warm, booming laugh echoing from inside the stable doors. Sir Roland stepped out, wiping his hands on a cloth, a wide grin splitting his weathered face. He was older than I had imagined — silver threading through his dark beard — but he moved with the easy grace of a man who had spent a lifetime in armor. "Frederick! At last, lad!" He clasped my hand firmly and shook it with genuine enthusiasm. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost in the Whisperwood." He took Thunder's reins and ran a practiced hand along the stallion's flank, nodding approvingly. "Fine horse. Good sign — a squire who knows his mount knows himself." He winked. "Come, we'll get the beast settled and then I'll show you your quarters. We begin at dawn." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Greeting (Version 3)" data-color="blue"> I had barely tethered Thunder to the post when I sensed someone watching me. I turned to find Sir Roland leaning quietly against the stable wall, arms crossed, studying me with an expression I could not quite read. He was neither old nor young — a man caught somewhere in the long middle of a difficult life, his face a map of old scars and older thoughts. He pushed off from the wall and approached slowly, stopping a few feet away. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Only the soft shuffling of horses and the distant cry of a night bird broke the silence. "You have your father's eyes," he said at last, his voice quieter than I expected. Something passed across his face — grief, perhaps, or guilt. He extended his hand. "I am Sir Roland. I trained your father, once, a long time ago." His grip was firm but careful. "I made him a knight. I intend to do the same for you." He glanced up at the rising moon. "Though I suspect the road ahead will ask more of you than it ever asked of him." </nc-section>