Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0ARJ5RPCC3S9RD7Y9KMEQ3

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: Sir Roland’s Judgment" data-color="red"> I reined Thunder in beside the stables, where straw crackled underfoot and the air smelled of oats and horse sweat. Before I could dismount, a voice like iron rang out behind me. “You’re late, boy.” Sir Roland stood near the open stable doors, broad-shouldered and weathered, his armor dulled slightly by travel but polished enough to catch the last light of day. A crest—half-lion, half-dragon—glimmered on his breastplate. He studied me the way one might inspect a blade. “Frederick, isn’t it? The new squire.” His gaze flicked to Thunder’s restless legs, then back to my hands. “If you handle a horse as carelessly as you arrive, you’ll have no friends but the muck.” I swallowed, trying to keep my voice steady. “I meant no disrespect, Sir Roland. I only—” “Save it.” He stepped closer, and the stable lanterns seemed to dim around him. “We begin with what’s nearest. Learn the horses, learn your footing, and then we’ll see if you’re worthy of a sword.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: Lessons in Shadow and Steel" data-color="green"> The stables loomed ahead, dark beams and warm lamplight spilling onto the yard. As I led Thunder toward the trough, I heard the steady click of armor on stone—measured, patient, certain it would not be ignored. A knight approached without hurry. Sir Roland’s cloak moved as though tugged by a subtle wind, though the air was calm. His helm was under his arm, revealing a stern face and eyes that missed nothing. “So,” he said, stopping just beyond the reach of a kicking horse. “Frederick. The castle finally bothers to collect itself a squire.” Thunder snorted at him, and Sir Roland responded with a calm hand on the stall door. “Easy.” His voice carried the authority of someone who had calmed storms by simply standing in the right place. I shifted my stance, remembering the words I’d been given about humility. “Sir Roland.” He nodded once, slow as a draw of a sword. “We’ll start tonight. Not with slaying monsters or polishing legends—those come later, if they come at all.” He leaned in slightly, as if sharing a secret. “Tonight, you’ll learn how to stand your ground. A squire who can’t keep balance can’t keep faith.” Then he pointed toward the tack room. “Show me your hands, Frederick. We’ll see what you’ve brought besides hope.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: A Welcome with Teeth" data-color="blue"> I guided Thunder through the stable yard, where lanterns swung gently and shadows pooled beneath the stalls. The moment the gate latched behind us, I felt as if the castle itself had swallowed the sound of my arrival. That was when Sir Roland stepped out from the darkness between the posts, as though he’d been there all along. His mail shirt caught the lantern glow; the edges of his armor were scarred in a way that suggested not battle luck, but battle lessons. “You’ve got a good horse,” he said, not unkindly—just accurately. “Most squires do, when they’re careful.” I blinked. “Sir Roland. I’m—” He raised a gauntleted hand, cutting my words short. “Don’t waste breath. The stables teach faster than speeches.” He walked around Thunder with the surety of someone who knew every sound a creature might make in fear or comfort. “Look at his ears. Look at his eyes. Then look at your own.” My cheeks warmed. “My own, Sir?” “Your stance. Your temper. Whether you’ll flinch when the work bites back.” Sir Roland finally met my gaze fully. “A dragon isn’t the only thing that guards its hoard. People do too. So earn your place.” He motioned toward the bridles and curry combs. “Begin. If you’re truly Frederick, you’ll learn in the dark, when nobody’s watching.” </nc-section>