Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8V47KGS6J0N2X5GJVYYTCS

Here are three alternate versions of the next section: <nc-section data-title="Version 1: A Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> Frederick dismounted Thunder with trembling legs, his boots sinking into the mud near the stables. The smell of hay and horse sweat hung thick in the evening air. He was fumbling with the saddle straps when a shadow fell over him — broad, unyielding, like the castle walls themselves. "You're late." The voice was deep and carried the weight of a man accustomed to obedience. Frederick turned to find Sir Roland standing with his arms crossed over a chest plate scarred by countless battles. The knight was taller than Frederick had imagined, with a jaw like chiseled granite and eyes the color of storm clouds. A longsword hung at his hip as naturally as a limb. "I—I'm sorry, sir. The roads from Ashenmoor were washed out and I had to—" "Excuses are the currency of the weak, boy." Sir Roland stepped closer, examining Frederick the way a blacksmith examines raw iron — skeptically, but with a faint glimmer of possibility. "You are Frederick of Ashenmoor, then? The one Lord Hargrove insists has promise?" Frederick straightened his spine. "I am, Sir Roland." The knight grunted. "We shall see. Stable your horse. You have ten minutes before evening drills, and I do not wait for anyone — least of all squires who cannot arrive on time." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: An Unexpected Kindness" data-color="green"> The stables were warm and alive with the soft nickering of horses as Frederick led Thunder through the open doors. He was searching for an empty stall when a broad-shouldered man in a simple linen tunic stepped out from behind a bay mare, a currycomb still in his hand. "You must be the lad from Ashenmoor," the man said with a smile that creased the laugh lines around his eyes. "Frederick, is it?" Frederick blinked. The man looked like a stable hand — sleeves rolled up, bits of straw clinging to his trousers. "Yes, sir. I'm looking for Sir Roland. I was told to report to him upon arrival." The man chuckled warmly and set the currycomb aside, wiping his palms on his thighs before extending a calloused hand. "Then you've found him. I'm Roland." Frederick's mouth fell open. This was the legendary knight of Greyhaven? The man who had single-handedly held the Bridge of Aranath against forty soldiers? He looked nothing like the towering, armor-clad figure Frederick had built up in his mind. "A knight who doesn't care for his own horse has no business caring for a kingdom," Sir Roland said, reading the boy's surprise with an amused grin. "Come. Let's get Thunder settled in, and then we'll find you a hot meal. Training begins at dawn, and I promise you — you'll want a full stomach for what's ahead." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: A Haunted Guardian" data-color="blue"> Frederick had barely led Thunder into the first empty stall when he noticed the man sitting alone on an overturned barrel at the far end of the stables. A single lantern flickered beside him, casting long shadows across a face that seemed to carry every one of its years like a scar. The man held a whetstone in one hand and a dagger in the other, drawing the blade across the stone in slow, rhythmic strokes. "Sir Roland?" Frederick ventured, his voice smaller than he intended. The scraping stopped. The knight looked up, and Frederick felt a chill pass through him. Sir Roland's eyes were pale blue, almost silver, and utterly empty — like windows into a room where all the fires had gone out long ago. A jagged scar ran from his left temple to the corner of his mouth, pulling his expression into something that was not quite a frown, not quite a grimace. "So," Roland said quietly, "they've sent me another one." Frederick swallowed hard. "Lord Hargrove sent me to train under you, sir. He said there was no finer knight in all the kingdom." Sir Roland's laugh was hollow, barely more than a breath. He sheathed the dagger and stood slowly, as though his bones protested every movement. "Hargrove says many things. Tell me, boy — do you know why they call this place the Last Post?" He gestured vaguely toward the castle beyond the stable walls. "It's because this is where the kingdom ends and the Wyldlands begin. And something has been stirring out there. Something old." He fixed Frederick with that haunting, silver gaze. "I hope you're more than just a boy with a fast horse." </nc-section>