Run: 2026-03-18-01KM07MVC80HKRCT8KRSB44H76

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: Sir Roland’s Welcome" data-color="red"> Before the stables, a voice cut through the clatter of hooves and the scent of straw. “Frederick!” Sir Roland called, stepping from the shadow of a hanging tack cloth. He was broad-shouldered and weathered, his armor dulled by honest wear rather than polish. A scar traced his cheek like a half-finished sentence. “You’re late by an hour, and yet somehow the gods have not seen fit to strike you down. That’s either luck—or trouble.” Thunder stamped once, snorting at the knight’s approach. Sir Roland moved with the ease of someone who had fought wind and steel alike. He leaned in just enough for me to catch the smell of leather and peppermint oil on his gloves. “Show me your hands,” he said. “A squire can hide in his posture, but the hands tell the truth.” I offered them—scarred knuckles from practice and the slight tremor of nerves. His gaze lingered, then softened by a fraction. “Good,” he decided. “They’ve learned to hurt properly. Now come. Before the master-at-arms notices your hesitation and assigns you to errands for the rest of the week.” As we walked toward the stables’ open yard, Roland gestured to a line of armored squires polishing tack. “Training begins with discipline,” he said. “Not bravery. Bravery comes later, if it comes at all. First, you learn to stand still when you’re frightened.” I swallowed. “Yes, Sir Roland.” He didn’t smile, but his eyes carried something like approval. “Then stand there,” he instructed, pointing to a marked patch of packed earth. “And don’t flinch when the horses complain.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Test of Breath" data-color="green"> At the stables, I slowed Thunder to a careful trot. The yard smelled of oats and clean sweat, and somewhere a bucket clanged like a bell struck by impatient fingers. That was when Sir Roland appeared—no announcement, no fanfare—simply present, as if he’d been carved from the castle wall itself and taught how to move. “Frederick,” he said, in the same tone one might use to address a startled horse. “You’ll do.” He looked me over quickly: boots, cloak, the set of my shoulders, the way I held my reins as if afraid they might bolt. “Hold your breath.” I blinked. “Sir?” “Breath,” he repeated, and stepped closer. “If you can’t keep steady inside your ribs, you won’t keep steady in a shield’s brace.” I obeyed, drawing in air—then letting it out slowly. The stable boy nearby paused, pretending not to stare. Even Thunder seemed to listen. Sir Roland nodded once. “Better. Now raise your left arm.” I lifted it. The knight watched the motion as though he could read the future in the angles. “A squire’s training is a map,” he said. “Most men only study the distance. You must study the turns.” He turned toward the row of stables. “There’s an errand you’ll think is beneath you,” he continued, “but you’ll do it perfectly—or you’ll do it again. Either way, you’ll learn.” I frowned despite myself. “What errand?” Roland’s mouth quirked, almost a smile. “Fetch the water the horses don’t want to drink.” Before I could ask, he clapped a gauntleted hand against the stable doorpost—thunk—and the sound carried through the yard. “Come,” he commanded. “Let’s see whether you’re built for patience, Frederick. The castle can forgive mistakes. It rarely forgives impatience.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: Banners and Balance" data-color="blue"> Near the stables, the wind shifted and brought the faint roar of distant practice—steel on shield, shouted commands swallowed by stone arches. I was about to find the head groom when a knight stepped into my path as smoothly as a drawn sword finding its sheath. Sir Roland. He wore his authority like armor: not bright, but immovable. His cloak was dark as wet bark, and his helm hung at his side as if he’d taken it off to speak plainly. “Frederick,” he greeted, voice steady. “You made it through the gate. That alone puts you ahead of most.” Thunder tossed his head, and the reins creaked in my grip. I offered a bow, lower than I intended. Roland’s eyes flicked to that detail, then away, like he didn’t want to embarrass me. “Don’t bow so deep,” he said. “In a fight, depth is a luxury. In a fight, you need your spine ready.” He gestured toward the yard’s center where a worn ring of chalk marked an old training circle. “Step in.” I obeyed, boots scuffing the packed earth. Roland walked around the circle, measuring my stance without speaking. The stable hands continued their work, but their motions had quieted—as if even they sensed a lesson taking shape. “Feet,” he said at last. “You set them like you’re walking across a bridge that might collapse. Stand like the ground is loyal.” I adjusted my weight, finding a steadier balance. The knight stopped behind me and placed a gauntleted finger lightly at my shoulder—firm, not painful, like an instructor correcting a seam. “Now remember this: when someone gives you an order, you don’t only obey their words. You obey their intent.” His finger slid away. “My intent is to see whether you can learn quickly, and whether you can learn without bitterness. Training isn’t punishment, Frederick. It’s preparation.” I met his gaze. “And for what, Sir?” Roland looked past me toward the castle’s higher halls, where the banners hung motionless despite the breeze. “For the day the last story changes,” he said softly. “Until then, we start with basics—stability, breath, and respect. Come. I’ll introduce you to your first lesson.” </nc-section>