Run: 2026-03-18-01KM07A973PHH266PWYBMXKR42

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: Sir Roland’s Welcome" data-color="red"> The gates groaned shut behind me, sealing the world of fields and dust away from the castle’s iron hush. Near the stables, I found the reason for the sudden quiet—Sir Roland stood there as if the very air had been ordered to keep respectful distance. He was broad in the shoulders and weathered in the face, plate armor polished to a bright, disciplined shine. When he stepped forward, it wasn’t with the hurry of a man seeking conversation, but the certainty of one accustomed to being obeyed. “Frederick,” he called, drawing my name like a blade from a sheath. “You’re late.” “I’m not late, sir,” I said at once, though the words came out thin. My horse’s hooves still felt like thunder in my bones. “Only… the road was slow.” Sir Roland’s gaze swept over me—over my travel-stiff cloak, my scuffed boots, and finally the careful way I held myself, as if unsure whether to stand tall or shrink. “The road is always slow for those who don’t know where they’re going. Come.” He jerked his chin toward the stables. “We’ll see what sort of squire the kingdom thinks it’s buying.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: Oaths by the Feed Trough" data-color="green"> Before I could even steady Thunder’s reins, a voice cut through the stable yard like a clean-edged command. “Hold him there.” A local knight—Sir Roland, as the men had called him—had appeared at my shoulder. He wore his armor without softness, not because he lacked comfort, but because comfort had never been his habit. The stablehands moved around him quickly, like minnows around a river stone. “Sir Roland,” I managed, bowing with practiced urgency. “Thank you for seeing me.” He didn’t smile. Not exactly. His expression shifted into something that might have been approval if approval were a thing you could hide behind steel. “You’re Frederick,” he said, and it sounded less like a question than a verdict. “Show me you can stand your ground.” He gestured toward the feed trough where a bucket sat overturned, hay scattered like fallen banners. “Start there. Learn first. Then learn again. A knight’s courage is easy to talk about—what matters is whether his hands are steady when no one is watching.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Knight and the Unquiet Shadow" data-color="blue"> The stable smelled of straw, warm leather, and the faint tang of metal that always seemed to cling to knights. I led Thunder toward a stall, but my attention kept snagging on Sir Roland, who stood half in shadow beside a stack of shields. He didn’t announce himself. He simply was—an unmoving point in the yard around which the rest of the world arranged itself. When I finally looked up, he was already watching, eyes sharp as flint. “You’ll need a steadier grip,” Sir Roland said. His tone carried no malice, only observation. “Your horse can feel fear. And horses learn fast.” “I’m not afraid,” I replied, too quickly. Thunder stamped once, as if agreeing with my protest—or dismissing it. Sir Roland stepped closer, the hem of his cloak brushing straw. “Good,” he murmured, and though the word was brief, it landed heavy. “Then listen carefully. Training here isn’t just drills and duels. It’s survival in a place that pretends to be safe.” He reached out and tapped the side of Thunder’s stall door—three measured knocks, like a code. “The castle remembers,” he said. “And it will test you before you’re ready. Follow me.” </nc-section>