Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09NS9XNKPE8Y91DXWJ79NR

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: Sir Roland’s Welcome" data-color="red"> Before the castle doors could swallow me whole, I found myself drawn toward the stables by the clatter of tack and the sharp calls of grooms. Straw and sweat hung in the air like a familiar cloak. There, beside Thunder’s stall, stood Sir Roland—broad-shouldered, armor dulled by travel, yet bearing himself with the steady authority of a man carved from duty. “You’re Frederick,” he said, not asking, as if the name had already been written into his ledger. His voice was roughened by wind and marching. He studied me the way a blacksmith studies steel: weighing strength, searching for flaws. “Yes, sir,” I managed, and my boots scraped the packed earth. Sir Roland’s gaze flicked to the reins. “Your horse came with you. Good. Half the battle is knowing what you’ve got under you.” He tapped the side of Thunder’s neck, and the stallion lowered his head in a calm acknowledgment. “Training begins at first bell,” the knight continued. “But there’s something you’ll learn sooner than footwork and forms.” He leaned closer, lowering his tone. “Look sharp. The castle has begun to feel… unsettled.” I didn’t know how to answer—only that the hairs on my arms had risen at the same time his did. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Lesson at the Stable Door" data-color="green"> I was still catching my breath from the ride when Sir Roland approached, boots striking a steady rhythm on the cobbles. The stable boys stepped aside as though the knight’s presence carried its own gravity. “You’ve arrived with more sense than most,” Sir Roland said, sweeping his eyes over my posture and the way I held myself around the animals. His gauntleted hand hovered near his sword, but he didn’t draw it—he didn’t need to. His calm was its own warning. “I—thank you, sir,” I stammered. He offered a curt nod toward Thunder. “Keep him clean. Brush marks matter. A tired horse tires a tired rider, and a rider who can’t see danger soon enough is a rider who doesn’t get back up.” Then his expression shifted—just slightly—as he looked past the stable yard toward the castle keep. “Last night,” Sir Roland said, “someone was careless with the watch. Not enough to alarm the whole garrison. Enough to let a rumor slip in through the seams.” His mouth tightened. “We pretend not to hear those rumors. We prepare anyway.” One of the grooms brought out a bucket of water, and as the liquid splashed, I thought I heard another sound beneath it—faint, like distant clanging metal where there should have been only silence. Sir Roland noticed my hesitation. “You hear that?” he asked. I swallowed. “Yes, sir.” “Then you’ll do well,” he replied, as though the uncertainty in my voice was already proof of potential. “Now. Let’s see if your eyes are as quick as your ears.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: Steel and Quiet Warnings" data-color="blue"> The stables smelled of hay and leather, and the lantern light made everything seem warmer than it truly was. I stood with Thunder’s reins in my hands, trying to appear steady while my thoughts raced ahead to training, to drills, to the promise of becoming something more than a name carried by letters. Sir Roland arrived without hurry, like a shadow deciding to take form. He wore his armor as though it were part of him—no clatter, no fuss. When he stopped beside me, the air seemed to tighten. “Frederick,” he said, and the way he spoke my name made it sound like an oath. His eyes were the color of old steel, and they missed nothing—the dust on my cloak, the strain in my shoulders, even the way I kept glancing toward the castle walls. “You’ll find that knights don’t just fight,” Sir Roland continued. “They listen. They count. They notice when the world holds its breath.” I opened my mouth, then closed it. “Is something wrong, sir?” He let out a slow breath, and for a moment the stable yard felt too quiet, as if even the horses were waiting. “Wrong is a word people use when they’ve already decided not to act.” His hand rested near the pommel of his sword. “Something is out of place. That’s different. Out of place things can be corrected—if you’re paying attention.” Thunder snorted softly, and the sound seemed to echo in my ribs. Sir Roland glanced at the stall doors. “Tonight we’ll have sparring. Tomorrow, weapons practice. But between those, you’ll learn the castle’s habits—every gate, every route, every shift in the guard. If you can’t remember where safety sits, you won’t know where danger is trying to move in.” My hands tightened on the reins. “I’ll remember, sir.” “Good,” he said, and the faintest trace of approval touched his stern face. “Because I don’t believe the trouble will announce itself with a trumpet.” </nc-section>