Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8VTEHFV926E0MKQQ721DNE

Here are three alternate versions of the next section: <nc-section data-title="Version 1: A Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> The stables smelled of hay and leather as Frederick dismounted, his boots hitting the cobblestones with an ungraceful thud. Thunder snorted and shook his mane, drawing the attention of a broad-shouldered man who emerged from the shadowed archway nearby. "You ride like a sack of flour," the man said flatly, his steel-gray eyes sweeping over Frederick with measured disapproval. A longsword hung at his hip, its pommel worn smooth from years of use. The crimson surcoat he wore bore the gilded lion of the kingdom — the mark of a knight commander. Frederick straightened immediately. "Sir Roland, I presume? I am Frederick of Ashenmoor. I've been sent to —" "I know who you are." Sir Roland stepped closer, his armored boots ringing against the stone. He took Thunder's reins without asking and handed them off to a waiting stable boy. "Your father wrote ahead. Said you were eager. Eager is dangerous, boy. Eager gets men killed." He turned on his heel and began walking toward the inner courtyard. "Follow me. And try to keep up." Frederick swallowed hard and hurried after him, the weight of the castle's ancient walls pressing down on him like a judgment yet to be rendered. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Warm Reception" data-color="green"> Frederick had barely swung his leg over the saddle when a hearty laugh boomed across the stableyard, startling a pair of roosting pigeons from the rafters. "By the old flames — you must be Frederick!" A knight strode toward him with the easy confidence of a man who had fought a hundred battles and toasted to every one of them afterward. He was tall and barrel-chested, with a red-brown beard streaked with silver and kind, crinkled eyes that seemed perpetually amused. "I'm Sir Roland. Welcome to Castle Valdris, lad." Before Frederick could offer a proper greeting, Sir Roland clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to nearly buckle his knees. "Look at you — you've got your mother's eyes and your father's stubborn jaw. I served with him at the Siege of Thornwall, you know. Fine man. Terrible cook." He chuckled warmly at his own memory. "It's an honor, sir," Frederick managed, steadying himself. "Honor is earned here, not given," Sir Roland replied, though his tone remained gentle. He gestured to a stable hand to tend to Thunder, then draped a companionable arm around Frederick's shoulder, guiding him toward the warmly lit great hall. "But first things first — you look half-starved. Let's get some food in you before we make a knight out of you." Frederick felt something loosen in his chest. Perhaps this place would not be so fearsome after all. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: A Mysterious Encounter" data-color="blue"> The stableyard was strangely quiet when Frederick arrived. No grooms rushed forward. No voices called out from the battlements. Only the soft nickering of horses and the distant creak of a weathervane broke the silence. Frederick dismounted slowly, his hand instinctively drifting to the short blade at his belt. Something felt wrong — a prickling at the back of his neck, as though unseen eyes were watching him from every shadow. "You sense it too, don't you?" Frederick spun around. A knight stood behind him where no one had been a moment before — tall, lean, and utterly still. His dark armor seemed to drink in the fading light, and his pale eyes glimmered with an unnatural intensity. A jagged scar ran from his left temple to the corner of his mouth, pulling his expression into something that was not quite a smile. "Sir Roland?" Frederick asked, his voice barely above a whisper. The knight nodded once. "The castle has been uneasy for weeks. The horses won't sleep. The hounds refuse to enter the lower halls." He paused, studying Frederick with an unsettling focus. "They told me the last dragon was dead. But the old stones remember things, boy. And lately... lately they've begun to hum." A chill ran down Frederick's spine that had nothing to do with the evening air. He opened his mouth to respond, but Sir Roland had already turned away, his dark cloak vanishing into the gathering dusk like a wisp of smoke. "Come," the knight's voice echoed back. "There is much you need to see before nightfall." </nc-section>