Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8W6109T16HQ4K8MYSEF2CP

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 frames darkened by years of rain and sun. As Frederick dismounted Thunder, his boots squelching into the mud-churned ground, a broad-shouldered figure emerged from the shadows of the stable door. "You're late," the man said, his voice like gravel dragged across iron. He wore a surcoat bearing the silver wyrm of House Ashford, and a longsword hung at his hip as naturally as a limb. His face was a map of old battles — a scar cleaving his left brow, a jaw set like a fortress gate. "Sir Roland?" Frederick managed, straightening his travel-worn tunic. "That's *Sir Roland, my lord* to you, boy. At least until you've earned the right to drop the courtesy." The knight's steel-grey eyes swept over Frederick from head to toe, measuring him the way a butcher measures a cut of meat. "Stable your horse. Find the quartermaster. And for the love of all the old gods, wash yourself. You smell like the road." He turned on his heel and strode away, his cloak snapping behind him. Frederick stood alone in the fading light, his heart hammering, wondering if he had made a terrible mistake. </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 rang out across the stable yard. "Well, well! You must be the lad old Brennan sent us!" A knight emerged from the stables, wiping his hands on a rag that had clearly seen better days. He was tall, with sun-weathered skin and a thick chestnut beard streaked with the first threads of silver. Despite his noble bearing, there was straw in his hair and what appeared to be horse liniment on his sleeve. "Sir Roland?" Frederick asked, offering a hasty bow. "The very same. And you needn't bow so deep — save that for the Duke." Sir Roland clapped a warm hand on Frederick's shoulder and peered at Thunder with an appreciative eye. "Fine animal. You've taken good care of him on the road, I can tell. That speaks well of you, young Frederick. A man who tends to his horse before himself is a man worth training." He took Thunder's reins with practiced ease and gestured toward the castle with a nod of his head. "Come. The kitchen's still warm, and Cook always keeps a pot of stew on for late arrivals. We'll get some food in your belly, and tomorrow — tomorrow the real work begins." Frederick felt the knot of anxiety in his chest loosen, just a little, as he followed the knight into the amber glow of the castle courtyard. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: A Mysterious Encounter" data-color="blue"> The stables were quieter than Frederick had expected. No stablehands rushed to greet him. No torches burned along the posts. Only the soft nickering of unseen horses broke the silence as he led Thunder through the open gate. Then he noticed the man sitting on an overturned bucket in the corner, sharpening a dagger by the pale light of a single lantern. He wore no armor — just a simple linen shirt and leather breeches — but the way he held himself, coiled and precise, spoke of someone who had long ago learned the language of violence. "Frederick of Thornwall," the man said without looking up. It was not a question. "Yes, sir. I'm looking for Sir Roland. I was told he would—" "You were told correctly." The man finally raised his gaze. His eyes were dark, almost black, and they held a strange intensity — as though he were looking not at Frederick but *through* him, searching for something hidden beneath the skin. "Tell me, boy. On your ride here, did you see anything unusual? Anything in the sky, perhaps… just before sunset?" Frederick's blood ran cold. He *had* seen something — a shape, vast and winged, cutting silently through the clouds far to the north. He had told himself it was a trick of the light. Sir Roland's expression told him it was not. </nc-section>