Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFH22HS6Z771MNTF3GW5V8N

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Stern Trial" data-color="red"> Frederick had just looped Thunder’s reins around a splintered oak hitching post outside the stables, brushing flecks of road dust from his tunic, when a shadow fell over him. He looked up to find Sir Roland, the kingdom’s most feared battle commander, his face crisscrossed with a scar that sliced through his left eyebrow, leaning against the stable’s stone lintel. “You’re the squire they sent from the western holds?” the knight growled, pushing off the wall to circle Frederick like a hound sizing up prey. Before Frederick could stammer a greeting, Sir Roland kicked a loose stone at his feet. “First lesson: never turn your back on an unchained stallion, and never assume a castle gate means you’re safe. Prove you’re worth the mud on my boots, or you’ll be sent home before the moon rises.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Homecoming Welcome" data-color="green"> Frederick was just leading Thunder into the stable’s sun-warmed aisle, already reaching for a brush to work the road grit from the stallion’s coat, when a laugh rang out from the hayloft. A broad-shouldered man with silver streaks in his auburn beard swung down, wiping chaff from his leather surcoat emblazoned with Roland’s stag crest. “Easy there, Thunder, I’ve got sugar cubes in my pocket for you,” Sir Roland called, before turning to wrap Frederick in a quick, warm clap on the shoulder that nearly knocked the wind out of him. “I’m Roland—sent word ahead to have a cot and a bowl of rabbit stew waiting for you in the barracks. Your mother wrote me you’ve been riding since you were seven, eh? First order of business: feed your horse, then feed yourself. We’ve got all the time in the world to start training tomorrow.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Clandestine Greeting" data-color="blue"> Frederick had only just secured Thunder’s stall door, fumbling with the rusted iron latch after his long ride, when a low voice spoke from the dim shadow between two hay bales. “Frederick of Westmere. You’re exactly on schedule.” He spun to find Sir Roland, his usual knight’s regalia stripped back to a plain tunic, a hood pulled low over his eyes to hide his identity from any passersby. The knight stepped forward, pressing a cold, carved iron token etched with a dragon’s wing into Frederick’s palm, folding his fingers around it before anyone could see. “The official story is you’re here for squire training. That’s a lie. The lords of this castle hunt dragons for their scales. I brought you here to find the last one before they do. Don’t speak of this to anyone. Not even the stable boys.” </nc-section>