Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8W1T5NRQ89X857HWJTX9MW

Here are three alternate versions of the next scene: <nc-section data-title="Version 1: A Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> The stables loomed ahead, their weathered timber doors thrown wide to the evening air. Frederick dismounted clumsily, his legs stiff from the long ride, and nearly stumbled into a pile of fresh hay. When he straightened, a towering figure stood before him, arms crossed over a breastplate that bore the scars of a hundred battles. "You're late," said Sir Roland, his voice like gravel dragged across stone. His steel-grey eyes swept over Frederick from head to toe, lingering on the mud-caked boots and the ill-fitting sword belt that hung too loosely at his hip. "I expected you at midday. The sun is nearly gone." Frederick opened his mouth to explain — the washed-out bridge, the detour through Gallows Marsh — but Sir Roland raised a gauntleted hand. "Excuses are the currency of the weak, boy. Here, we trade in discipline." He turned sharply on his heel. "Stable your horse. Feed him before you feed yourself. Then find me in the east hall. Your training began the moment you passed through those gates — and you're already behind." Frederick swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around Thunder's reins. The stallion nudged his shoulder as if to say *courage*. He led the horse into the warmth of the stable, the scent of oat and leather wrapping around him like a promise — or perhaps a warning. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: An Unexpected Kindness" data-color="green"> Frederick had barely swung down from Thunder's back when a broad-shouldered man emerged from the stables, wiping his hands on a rag that had long since surrendered any claim to cleanliness. His face was sun-bronzed and lined with laugh lines that crinkled deeply as he smiled. "Ah, you must be the lad from Willowmere!" the man called warmly, tucking the rag into his belt. "Frederick, isn't it? I'm Sir Roland. Welcome to Ashenmoor Castle." Frederick blinked. He had expected a knight in gleaming armor, not a man in a simple linen tunic with straw clinging to his sleeves. Sir Roland noticed the boy's confusion and let out a rich, rumbling laugh. "Surprised to find a knight mucking stalls, are you?" He reached out and gave Thunder an appreciative pat along the neck. "Fine animal. A man who tends to his own horse tends to his own soul — that's the first lesson, free of charge." He winked. "Come. Let's get this fellow brushed down and watered. You and I can talk while we work. I want to hear everything about your journey." As Sir Roland led them into the stable, chatting easily about the roads and the weather, Frederick felt the tight knot of anxiety in his chest begin to loosen. Perhaps this new life would not be as fearsome as he had imagined. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Knight and the Dragon's Shadow" data-color="blue"> A groom rushed forward to take Thunder's reins, but the boy froze mid-step, eyes wide with sudden fear. Frederick followed his gaze and saw why — perched on the stable roof, its silhouette black against the dying sun, was the skeletal remain of a dragon's skull, mounted like a grotesque weathervane. "Unsettling, isn't it?" Frederick spun. A knight leaned against the stable doorframe, one boot crossed over the other, polishing a dagger with slow, deliberate strokes. He was younger than Frederick had expected — perhaps thirty — but his left arm ended just below the elbow, the sleeve pinned neatly against itself. "Sir Roland?" Frederick ventured. "The very same." The knight sheathed his dagger in a single fluid motion and pushed off the doorframe. His gaze drifted up to the skull. "Velmrath the Ember-Tongued. I took that trophy six years ago in the Blackspine Mountains. Cost me a hand and half my squadron." His voice held no pride — only the quiet weight of memory. "They say Velmrath was the last of the great drakes. They're wrong." A chill snaked down Frederick's spine that had nothing to do with the evening wind. Sir Roland fixed him with a look that burned brighter than any sunset. "That's why you're here, boy. I'm not training you to joust at tournaments or bow before lords. I'm training you to survive what's coming." He placed his remaining hand on Frederick's shoulder. "Come inside. We have much to discuss — and very little time." </nc-section>