Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0G5QDN85WNPRFQ0KW4GJMS

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Gruff Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted near the stables, the scent of hay and horseflesh thick in the evening air, a broad shadow fell across me. I looked up to see a mountain of a man clad in weathered mail, his beard streaked with silver and his eyes the color of a stormy sea. "You'll be the new squire, then." It was not a question. Sir Roland's voice rumbled like distant thunder, and he regarded me with the measured scrutiny of a man who had seen countless boys pass through these gates, few of them worthy. "Frederick, isn't it?" "Yes, my lord." I bowed, perhaps too deeply, and felt heat rise to my cheeks. He grunted, neither approving nor dismissive, and ran a calloused hand along Thunder's flank. The stallion, who had bitten three stable boys on our journey, stood perfectly still. "Good horse. Better than the lad who rides him, I'd wager." A flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossed his weathered face. "Stable him yourself. A knight who cannot tend his own mount is no knight at all. When you're finished, find me in the mess hall. We've much to discuss, and little time before the trouble finds us." Before I could ask what trouble, he had turned and strode away, his cloak snapping behind him like a battle standard. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: An Unexpected Kindness" data-color="green"> I had barely swung down from the saddle when a warm, booming laugh echoed across the courtyard. "By the gods, they sent me a child!" I turned to find a tall knight approaching, his armor polished but clearly battle-worn, a crooked smile splitting his sun-browned face. He was younger than I had expected—perhaps thirty—with unruly brown hair and a scar that traced from his left ear to his jaw like a signature. "Sir Roland, at your service," he said, sweeping into a theatrical bow that made the stable hands snicker. Then, rising, he clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. "And you must be Frederick. Your father wrote to me, you know. Three pages about your virtues and not a single word about your faults. I find that suspicious in any man, but especially a father." I fumbled for a response, but he was already taking Thunder's reins from my hands, speaking to the horse in low, soothing tones. "Come, lad. You look half-starved and wholly exhausted. There will be time enough tomorrow for oaths and drills and all the grim business of becoming a knight." He winked. "Tonight, we eat. And I want to hear everything about the road. A squire's first journey is never dull, no matter what he thinks." Something tight in my chest began to loosen. Perhaps, I thought, this would not be so terrible after all. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: An Omen at the Gate" data-color="blue"> The stables smelled of iron and smoke rather than hay, and I knew before I dismounted that something was wrong. Stable boys moved with the hushed urgency of mourners. A grey warhorse near the far stall bore fresh wounds, hastily bandaged, and its rider stood beside it—a knight still in his battered harness, helm tucked beneath one arm. He looked up as I approached, and I saw a face carved from hard years: a jaw like an anvil, pale eyes set deep beneath a brow that had forgotten how to soften. Blood, not his own, had dried along his gauntlet. "Frederick of Ashvale." His voice was quiet, which somehow made it worse. "I am Sir Roland. I had hoped to meet you under kinder stars." "My lord, what has happened?" He studied me for a long moment, as though weighing whether I was yet a man, or still a boy who should be sent home before the dark arrived. Whatever he saw seemed to settle the matter, though not happily. "Three villages along the eastern border burned last night. The things that did the burning were not men, nor any beast our hunters can name." His gaze drifted past me, toward the darkening horizon. "The old stories are waking, Frederick. And you have ridden into the castle on the very eve of them." He turned toward the keep, then paused without looking back. "Stable your horse. Eat what you can. Sleep if sleep will have you. Tomorrow, your training begins—and I fear we shall not have the luxury of years." </nc-section>