Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95AKQ93W8QW5AQ1GXNDVEY

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Titan of Iron" data-color="red"> As I reined Thunder to a halt near the sprawling stables, the heavy scent of hay and manure filled the air. Standing by the mounting block was a man who seemed more mountain than human. Sir Roland, clad in weathered plate armor that had seen a hundred battles, crossed his massive arms. His graying beard was trimmed short, and his eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, appraised me with a cold intensity. "Dismount, boy," he rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "The road may have been long, but your real journey starts the moment your boots hit this mud. I am Sir Roland. You’re the one they sent to fetch my water and sharpen my steel, I take it?" I scrambled down, my legs stiff, and gave a shallow bow, feeling the immense weight of the duty I had just inherited. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Veteran's Welcome" data-color="green"> The rhythmic thumping of Thunder’s hooves slowed as we entered the castle's outer courtyard. A tall, lean knight was busy grooming a dappled mare near the stable doors, his surcoat bearing the faded emblem of a golden dragon. He didn't look up immediately, but as I pulled to a stop, he set aside his brush and wiped his brow with a calloused hand. "Steady there, lad," Sir Roland said with a faint, knowing smile. "Thunder’s a fine beast, though he looks like he's carried you half across the realm without a break." He walked over, patting my horse's neck before looking me in the eye. "I’m Roland. Shake the dust off your cloak and get your gear inside. We’ve much to discuss before the sun fully vanishes, and the stables are no place for a squire to stand idle." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Testing Glance" data-color="blue"> I barely had time to catch my breath before a shadow fell over me. Sir Roland was leaning against a wooden pillar by the stable entrance, tossing a small whetstone into the air and catching it with practiced ease. He didn't look like the legendary heroes from my father's stories; he looked tired, his face etched with the scars of old campaigns. "You're late, Frederick," he said, his voice flat but not unkind. "A squire's first lesson is that destiny doesn't wait for those who dawdle on the road." I opened my mouth to apologize, but he held up a hand. "Save your breath for the training yard. Tied the horse up, see him fed and brushed, then meet me in the Great Hall. Let's see if there's more to you than just a fancy name and a fast horse." </nc-section>