Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95DFYQKQNPMC3XZT9YAM2H

<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> As I reined Thunder to a halt near the sprawling stables, the heavy scent of damp straw and horsehide filled the air. A man stood by the gate, his arms folded across a chest plate etched with the scars of a dozen battles. This was Sir Roland, a knight whose reputation for discipline preceded him. "Dismount, boy," he barked, his voice sounding like grinding stones. I scrambled down, my boots hitting the dirt with a dull thud. Roland stepped forward, his eyes scanning me from head to toe with cold precision. "You look as though the wind might blow you over. If you expect to survive the training here, you’ll need to harden that spine. Take your horse to the end stall, then report back to me. We don't waste daylight in this castle." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> The clatter of Thunder’s hooves on the cobblestones slowed as we reached the stable yard. A tall figure emerged from the shadows of the eaves, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. Sir Roland offered a weary but genuine smile, his grey beard catching the last rays of the sun. "Welcome, Frederick," he said, stepping over to pat Thunder's neck. "You've made good time. The road from the south is never easy this time of year." He looked at me then, his gaze kind but firm. "Rest tonight, for tomorrow the transition from boy to squire truly begins. A knight is only as good as his foundation, and we shall start building yours at dawn. For now, see to your mount; a squire who forgets his horse forgets his soul." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> I had barely caught my breath when a shadow fell across the path. Sir Roland stood there, leaning against a wooden post, watching me with an unreadable expression. He didn't look like the legends described; his armor was functional rather than flashy, and his eyes held the weight of a man who had seen too much of the world. "So, you're the one they sent," Roland murmured, more to himself than to me. He pushed off the post and walked a slow circle around my horse. "Fine animal. Let's hope he's sturdier than his master." I opened my mouth to defend myself, but he held up a hand. "Don't speak. Prove your worth through your work, Frederick. The stables are full, the sun is down, and your training has already begun. Show me how you handle a blade—the pitchfork kind." </nc-section>