Run: 2026-07-07-01KWZ43X4JGR50BED1PDDK0JAX

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: A Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> The stable hands scattered as Sir Roland strode toward Frederick, his boots crunching against the hay-strewn cobblestones. The knight was taller than Frederick had imagined—a broad-shouldered man with a weathered face scarred from years of battle. His armor gleamed dully in the fading light, and the greatsword at his hip seemed almost as tall as Frederick himself. "So you're the boy they sent me," Sir Roland said, his voice low and rough like gravel dragged across stone. He looked Frederick up and down with eyes the color of a storm cloud, making no effort to hide his assessment. "The scribe's letter said you're to begin your training immediately." Frederick swallowed hard, clutching the reins of his exhausted horse. "Yes, my lord. I—" "Sir. Not my lord. I earned my title through blood, not birth." Sir Roland stepped closer, and Frederick caught the scent of iron and leather—the smell of a man who lived in his armor. "You'll address me as Sir Roland, or you'll not address me at all. Is that understood?" Frederick straightened his back, trying to appear taller than his sixteen years allowed. "Understood, Sir Roland." The knight studied him a moment longer, then grunted—a sound that might have been approval or merely acknowledgment. "Stable your horse. Then report to the training yard. You'll eat when you've earned your meal." He turned sharply, his cloak snapping behind him. "And boy—forget whatever stories you've heard about dragons. The only monsters you need fear are the ones I'll make of you before this training is through." Frederick watched him go, his heart hammering. This was nothing like the songs said it would be. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Father's Mentorship" data-color="green"> The stables were warm with the scent of horses and fresh straw when Frederick dismounted. A man in simple leather armor, his gray-streaked hair tied back from a kind but weathered face, stepped forward to take his horse's bridle. "You must be Frederick," the man said, his voice carrying the gentle cadence of someone accustomed to speaking softly to skittish creatures—both beast and boy alike. "I'm Sir Roland. Welcome to Greycastle." Frederick blinked in surprise. He had expected the local knight to be... well, more knightly. More armor, more grime, more of the battle-hardened warrior from the tales. This man looked more like a farmer who had once been a soldier. "Sir Roland? I—forgive me, I expected—" "Someone fiercer?" Sir Roland laughed, a warm sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I get that often. The fiercer I looked in my youth, the more enemies I made. These days, I prefer to let my reputation precede me and my face to surprise them." He gestured for Frederick to follow him into the stables. "Come. Let's get your horse settled. You've had a long ride." As they walked together through the stable, Sir Roland asked about Frederick's journey, his family, and his reasons for seeking training. He listened with genuine interest, nodding at the right moments and asking thoughtful questions. "Being a knight isn't just about swordplay and dragons, lad," he said, patting the flank of Frederick's horse as it drank from a trough. "It's about knowing when to fight and when to listen. Most battles are won before the first blade is drawn—if you've listened carefully enough." He turned to Frederick with a gentle smile. "We'll begin tomorrow at dawn. For now, you'll eat and rest. Training a squire is like training a horse—push too hard, too fast, and you'll break something that can't be mended." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: An Ominous Greeting" data-color="blue"> The sun had nearly set by the time Frederick reached the stables, casting long shadows that seemed to reach for him like grasping fingers. A figure emerged from those shadows—Sir Roland, though Frederick would not have known it from the tales. The knight moved with an unsettling grace, as if his feet barely touched the ground. "You're late," Sir Roland said. His voice was soft, almost musical, but it carried an undercurrent that made the hair on Frederick's neck stand on end. "The dragons told me you would be." Frederick's mouth went dry. "The... dragons, sir?" Sir Roland smiled, and in the dim light, his teeth seemed sharper than they should have been. "Did you think the stories were just stories, boy? Did you think the last dragon was merely a legend to frighten children?" He stepped closer, and Frederick noticed for the first time that the knight's eyes had a strange, reptilian quality—vertical pupils that widened and narrowed as they caught the fading light. "The dragons speak to those who know how to listen. And they've been speaking about you for some time, young Frederick." The knight reached out and gripped Frederick's shoulder. His hand was hot—uncomfortably so, as if fever burned beneath the skin. "You've been chosen for a purpose greater than mere knighthood. The last dragon stirs in its mountain prison, and when it wakes, it will need a champion—or a sacrifice." Sir Roland's grip tightened. "By the time your training is complete, you'll know which you are." He released Frederick's shoulder and turned toward the castle, his cloak billowing despite the still evening air. "Stable your horse. Then meet me in the tower study. We have much to discuss, and the dragons grow impatient." Frederick stood frozen for a long moment, his hand trembling on the reins. What had he gotten himself into? And what did Sir Roland know about dragons that the songs and stories never told? </nc-section>