Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ033GZ12SE6SVS3TDWGSYAF

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Stoic Mentor" data-color="red"> The stable boy took Thunder's reins as I dismounted, my legs stiff from the long journey. Before I could even stretch the ache from my muscles, a shadow fell over me. "So you're the boy they've sent." I turned to find a tower of a man leaning against the stable door. Sir Roland wore no armor, just a simple tunic that strained against his broad shoulders, but the longsword at his hip left no question as to who he was. His face was weathered like old leather, and his grey eyes studied me the way a hawk studies a field mouse. "Sir Roland," I bowed quickly. "I am Frederick of Ash—" "I know who you are." He pushed off from the doorframe and circled me slowly. "I know your father too. Sent you here to make a man of you, did he?" He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could see the pale scar tracing his jaw. "The stables need mucking. Start there. We'll see if you're worth the feed your horse eats." He turned and walked away without another word. I stood there, the scent of hay and horse manure filling my nostrils, wondering what I had gotten myself into. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Unexpected Welcome" data-color="green"> "Whoa there, easy boy!" I spun around at the voice. An old man was struggling with a panicked mare in the corral, his white hair sticking up at odd angles as the horse danced and snorted. Instinct took over—I dropped my travel pack and moved to the far side of the animal, making soft clicking sounds with my tongue. The mare's ears flicked toward me. I kept my movements slow, my voice low, and within moments she had settled. The old man let out a hearty laugh. "Well now! Looks like those hands know their way around horses." He extended a calloused palm. "Roland. They call me Sir Roland around these parts, though I've always thought titles were for men with something to prove." My eyes widened. This jovial, disheveled man was the legendary knight I had heard stories of since childhood? The man who held the bridge at Redmont against forty soldiers? He seemed to read my thoughts and chuckled again. "Expecting someone taller? More shining?" He winked. "Armor's for battle, lad. Come—I'll show you where to stable your horse, and then we'll find you some supper. You can tell me about your journey, and I'll tell you what it really means to be a knight." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Testing Ground" data-color="blue"> I had barely swung my leg over the saddle when something hard struck me in the back. I stumbled forward, hitting the ground face-first in the dirt and straw. "Dead," came a gruff voice above me. "You'd be dead before you even drew your sword." I rolled over, spitting hay from my mouth, and found the tip of a wooden training sword hovering inches from my throat. The man holding it was older, perhaps fifty, but his arms were like oak branches and his stance spoke of decades of combat experience. "Get up," he commanded. I scrambled to my feet, heart hammering. "Your horse could smell me from a hundred paces, but you? You didn't sense a thing. Too busy admiring the castle." "Sir Roland?" I guessed, brushing dirt from my tunic. A flicker of something—approval, perhaps—crossed his weathered face. "At least you're not slow-witted." He tossed the practice sword to the ground between us. "Your father was one of the finest squires I ever trained. Attentive. Aware." He nodded toward the wooden blade. "Pick it up. Let's see if the blood runs true." "But Sir Roland, I've just arrived—I haven't even—" "Enemies don't wait for you to rest, boy." His hand moved to the hilt of his real sword. "Now pick it up." </nc-section>