Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8WXTJ2Q89NSCRSJSC26GE8

Here are three alternate versions of the next scene: <nc-section data-title="Version 1: A Warm Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted Thunder near the stables, the clatter of armored boots on cobblestone drew my attention. A broad-shouldered man with a salt-and-pepper beard and kind, weathered eyes strode toward me, his hand already extended in greeting. "You must be Frederick," he said, his voice deep and resonant, carrying the easy authority of a man long accustomed to command. "I am Sir Roland, Knight of the Silver Vale. Your father wrote ahead — said you had the makings of something special." He clasped my hand firmly, and I felt the callouses of a thousand sword drills pressed against my palm. A stable boy darted forward to take Thunder's reins, and Sir Roland clapped me on the shoulder with a warmth that immediately put me at ease. "Come, lad. Let's get you fed and settled before the real work begins. Tomorrow, your old life ends and your new one starts." He smiled beneath his beard, and for the first time since leaving home, the knot of anxiety in my chest began to loosen. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Stern Introduction" data-color="green"> I had barely swung my leg over the saddle when a sharp voice cut through the evening air like a blade. "You're late." I stumbled as my boots hit the ground, turning to find a tall, gaunt knight leaning against the stable door with his arms folded across his chest. His armor was immaculate, polished to a mirror sheen, and his dark eyes studied me the way a hawk studies a mouse in an open field. "Sir Roland?" I ventured, my voice smaller than I would have liked. "That's *Sir* Roland to you, and you'll do well to remember it." He pushed off the doorframe and circled me slowly, his gaze cataloging every wrinkle in my travel-worn tunic, every smudge of road dust on my face. "Scrawny. Slouching. And you ride like a sack of flour." He stopped in front of me, and the silence stretched until I thought it might snap. Then, almost imperceptibly, his expression softened — just a fraction. "But your eyes are sharp. That's something. Stable your horse yourself — a knight tends to his mount before he tends to himself. Then report to the east hall. We have much to discuss." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: A Mysterious Encounter" data-color="blue"> The stables were quiet save for the soft nickering of horses and the rustle of hay. I led Thunder into an empty stall and was loosening his saddle straps when I noticed a figure standing in the shadows at the far end of the stable — perfectly still, watching me. "You ride well for someone so young," the figure said, stepping into a shaft of fading sunlight. He was not what I had expected. Sir Roland was neither imposing nor fearsome. He was of average height, with an unremarkable face and gray-streaked hair pulled back in a simple knot. He wore no armor — just a plain leather jerkin and a sword belt so old the leather had turned nearly black. But his eyes. His eyes were something else entirely. They shimmered with a pale, almost silver light, and when they met mine, I felt a strange tingling sensation at the base of my skull, as if something ancient and powerful had just become aware of my existence. "Frederick," he said — not a question. He reached into his jerkin and produced a small object wrapped in cloth, pressing it into my hands. "Keep this hidden. Tell no one. There are things about your arrival here that go far beyond squire's training, and we have precious little time before *they* realize you've come." Before I could utter a single question, he turned and vanished into the deepening twilight, leaving me alone with a racing heart and a mysterious weight in my trembling hands. </nc-section>