Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8TPAHTX3ZFWM8TBP8H0GCD

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: Sir Roland's Greeting" data-color="red"> As I dismounted Thunder near the stables, a gruff voice cut through the evening air. "You there! Boy!" I turned to see a broad-shouldered knight striding toward me, his armor catching the last dying rays of the sun. Sir Roland was everything the rumors had promised — a jaw like a cliff face, a scar running from his left eye to his chin, and eyes that seemed to weigh your worth in a single glance. "You must be Frederick," he said, stopping just short of me, arms crossed over his chest. "I expected someone... larger." He let the insult hang in the air like smoke before a rare, wolfish grin cracked his stern face. "No matter. Small men have surprised me before. See to your horse, then meet me in the yard. Your training begins at dawn — if you survive the night's chores." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: Sir Roland's Greeting" data-color="green"> The stables smelled of hay and warm leather as I led Thunder inside, my legs still trembling from the long ride. I was reaching for a brush when a gentle hand landed on my shoulder, startling me nearly out of my boots. "Easy, lad." The voice was calm and deep, like the rumble of a distant river. Sir Roland stepped into the lantern light, and I was struck immediately by his kindness — a broad smile beneath a neatly trimmed silver beard, laugh lines etched deep around his eyes. He was older than I had imagined, softer somehow than a knight ought to look. "You've ridden hard today," he said, taking the brush from my hand and beginning to tend to Thunder himself. "A knight who cares for his horse will find his horse cares for him in return." He winked at me over Thunder's broad back. "Welcome to the castle, Frederick. I think you and I are going to get along just fine." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: Sir Roland's Greeting" data-color="blue"> I had barely tied Thunder's reins to the post when I heard the measured, deliberate footsteps of someone who had spent a lifetime in armor. Sir Roland emerged from the shadow of the stable archway, helmet tucked beneath one arm, his expression unreadable as carved stone. He said nothing at first — only studied me with pale grey eyes that moved slowly from my dusty boots to the top of my wind-tangled hair. The silence stretched long enough to make me fidget. "Frederick of Ashvale," he said at last, his voice barely above a murmur. "I knew your father." The words landed between us like stones dropped into still water. He glanced away, toward the darkening horizon beyond the castle walls, something flickering briefly across his face — grief, perhaps, or guilt. "He was a good man," he added quietly. Then, as if a door had been shut inside him, his gaze snapped back to mine, sharp and businesslike. "Come. There is much to discuss, and very little time." </nc-section>