Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8TMCZVQZ1ZGEQJ7QKTMVX2

Here are three alternate versions of the scene where Sir Roland greets Frederick near the stables: <nc-section data-title="Version 1: A Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted Thunder near the stables, a towering figure emerged from the shadow of the gatehouse. Sir Roland was everything the stories had promised — broad-shouldered, square-jawed, with a scar that traced a pale river from his left temple to his chin. His armor gleamed even in the fading light, and the hilt of his longsword caught the last rays of the sun like a second flame. "You're late," he said, his voice deep and unyielding as iron struck on an anvil. His dark eyes swept over me, measuring, cataloguing, dismissing — all in a single glance. "I expected the new squire at midday. The sun does not wait for boys who dawdle on the road." I opened my mouth to explain — the washed-out bridge, the detour through Briarwood — but he silenced me with a raised gauntlet. "Excuses are the currency of the weak, boy. Stable your horse. Find the quartermaster. And pray to whatever gods you favor that tomorrow you prove more impressive than you appear tonight." He turned on his heel, his crimson cloak snapping like a war banner, and strode back toward the keep without another word. I stood in the dust, my heart hammering, and thought: *This is either the greatest opportunity of my life, or the worst mistake I've ever made.* </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Warm Reception" data-color="green"> The stables smelled of sweet hay and leather, and Thunder nickered softly as I led him through the wide timber doors. I was fumbling with the saddle straps, my fingers stiff from the long ride, when a warm laugh rolled through the air behind me. "So you're the young Frederick I've heard so much about!" I turned to find a knight leaning against the stable post, arms folded across a well-worn breastplate. Sir Roland was not what I had imagined. He was older than I expected, perhaps fifty, with laugh lines carved deep around kind grey eyes and a beard the color of winter frost. A stable cat wound lazily between his boots, and he scratched its ears without looking down, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "Your father and I rode together in the Thornwall Campaign," he continued, stepping forward to clasp my hand in both of his. His grip was firm but gentle. "He was the bravest man I ever knew. There's no higher honor for me than to train his son." He took Thunder's reins from me with practiced ease and began unsaddling the horse himself. "First rule of knighthood, lad — always tend to your horse before yourself. But tonight, you look half-starved, so I'll make an exception. Come. The kitchen has kept a plate warm for you, and we have much to discuss by the fire." For the first time since leaving home, the knot of anxiety in my chest began to loosen. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: A Mysterious Encounter" data-color="blue"> The stableyard was empty when I arrived — unnervingly so. No grooms, no farriers, no pages running errands in the twilight. Only the restless shuffling of horses in their stalls and the distant cry of a raven circling the highest tower. Thunder pawed the cobblestones and refused to step further, his ears pinned flat against his skull. "He senses it too." The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. I spun around, hand instinctively dropping to the small dagger at my belt — the only weapon I owned. A figure materialized from the darkness between the stable doors, moving with the silent grace of a predator. Sir Roland wore no gleaming armor, no proud heraldry. Instead, he was cloaked in black leather, and his pale blue eyes glowed faintly in the dusk, as though lit by some inner fire. "You feel it, don't you, boy?" he murmured, stepping closer. "That prickling at the back of your neck. That whisper in your blood." He studied my face with an intensity that made my skin crawl. "They told me you were just a squire. But you're not, are you? You're something else entirely." "I — I don't know what you mean, sir," I stammered. Sir Roland's lips curved into a thin, unreadable smile. He reached into his cloak and produced a small object — a dragon scale, black as midnight, shimmering with an iridescent fire that seemed alive. He pressed it into my trembling palm. "You will," he whispered. "Before the moon is full, you will." </nc-section>