Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0GBH8F2AW6Y1B07KJRA6R0

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight's Welcome (Version 1)" data-color="red"> The iron portcullis groaned open as I approached, and Thunder's hooves clattered against the cobblestones of the inner courtyard. The scent of hay and horseflesh guided me toward the stables, where a tall figure stood waiting beneath the flickering torchlight. Sir Roland was exactly as the stories had described him—broad of shoulder, weathered of face, with a scar running from his temple to his jaw. His chainmail glinted beneath a crimson surcoat, and though his beard had gone gray at the edges, his eyes were as sharp as any blade. "So, you are the boy they've sent me," he said, his voice a low rumble. He stepped forward and ran a hand along Thunder's flank, nodding approvingly. "A fine mount. Tell me, squire—do you ride as well as you sit?" I dismounted with as much grace as my aching legs would allow. "I hope to prove myself worthy, Sir Roland." "Hope is a poor companion on the battlefield," he replied, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Come. There is much to do before the moon rises, and I do not suffer idle hands." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight's Welcome (Version 2)" data-color="green"> Thunder slowed to a trot as we passed beneath the gatehouse, and I drank in the sights of the bustling courtyard—servants hurrying with baskets of bread, blacksmiths hammering at glowing iron, soldiers drilling in tight formation. I guided my stallion toward the stables at the eastern wall, where the warm light of lanterns spilled across the straw. A man emerged from the shadows of the stable doorway, and I knew at once it must be Sir Roland. He was not as imposing as I had imagined—shorter than my father, leaner too—but there was a quiet authority in the way he carried himself that made me straighten in my saddle. "You're late," he said, though there was no anger in his tone. He reached up to stroke Thunder's muzzle with a calloused hand. "But I suspect that was the fault of the road, not the rider. I am Roland. And you must be Frederick." "Yes, my lord." I swung down from the saddle, my boots striking the packed earth. "Not 'my lord.' Sir Roland will do, or simply Roland when we are alone." He studied me with pale blue eyes that seemed to see straight through my travel-stained cloak. "Your father was a good man, Frederick. I shall do my best to make you half the knight he was. Come—let us see your horse settled, and then we shall speak of what lies ahead." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight's Welcome (Version 3)" data-color="blue"> The castle gates opened with a shriek of old hinges, and I guided Thunder through them into a courtyard alive with the smells of smoke and supper. Stable boys darted between horses, and somewhere in the distance a hound was baying at the dying sun. I made my way toward the long timber stables, uncertain where I was meant to go or whom I was meant to find. I need not have worried. As I dismounted, a figure in dark green peeled himself away from the stable wall where he had been leaning with arms crossed. He was younger than I had expected—perhaps five-and-thirty—with close-cropped black hair and the easy stance of a man who had never in his life been taken by surprise. "Frederick, isn't it?" he said, and extended a gauntleted hand. "Roland. Welcome to Ashford." I clasped his hand, finding his grip firm but not crushing. "Thank you, Sir Roland. I came as swiftly as I could." "So I see. Your horse is lathered near to ruin." He chuckled, taking Thunder's reins from my hand and passing them to a waiting stable boy with a practiced nod. "A word of advice, squire, before we've even begun: a knight who arrives half an hour later with a fresh horse is worth more than one who arrives on time with a dead one. Remember that." He clapped me on the shoulder and turned toward the keep. "Now come. The Baron wishes to meet you, and he is a man who does not enjoy waiting." </nc-section>