Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCPN7TKNH8SAXKEDWX91E24

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight at the Stables (Version 1)" data-color="red"> The gates groaned open before me, and I guided Thunder through the archway into a courtyard smelling of hay, iron, and woodsmoke. A stable boy took the reins without a word, and I had scarcely found my footing on the cobbles when a shadow fell across me. He was broader than any man I had known in my father's village, and his surcoat — dust-grey with travel — bore a lion worked in faded gold thread. Grey stubbled his jaw. A long scar ran from his left ear down into his collar, pale as candle wax. "You'd be the squire, then," he said. Not a question. "Frederick. Son of the miller at Ashcombe." "Frederick Aldworth, my lord. My father keeps the mill, yes." "I'm no lord. Sir Roland will do, and Roland when we're alone." He looked past me at Thunder, and something in his face softened, though it did not quite become a smile. "That's a good horse. Better than a miller's son has any business riding." "He was a gift, sir." "Gifts have a way of turning into debts." Sir Roland ran a hand down Thunder's neck, and the stallion — who suffered no stranger gladly — stood quiet as a lamb. "Rub him down yourself. Don't let the boys do it. A knight who doesn't know his own horse's legs doesn't deserve to sit on them." He turned to go, then paused at the stable door, silhouetted against the failing light. "Eat well tonight, Frederick. Sleep sound. Tomorrow you'll begin to learn how little you know, and it's a long lesson." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight at the Stables (Version 2)" data-color="green"> I had expected trumpets, perhaps. A steward with a list. Instead I found the stables half-dark and a man in his shirtsleeves shovelling muck into a barrow, whistling badly. "Excuse me," I said. "I'm looking for the master-at-arms. I'm to present myself—" "Then present yourself." He straightened and leaned on the shovel, and I saw the sword belt hanging on the post behind him, and the spurs set neatly on the sill, and my stomach dropped through my boots. "Sir Roland?" "That's the one." He grinned, entirely unbothered, and wiped his palm on his thigh before offering it. I took it. His grip was like a door closing. "You'll be Frederick. You're late, and you're taller than the letter said." "The road past Merrow was flooded, sir. I had to go round by the—" "I know the road. I've ridden it forty years." He picked up the shovel again and, without ceremony, tossed it to me. I caught it against my chest, and something soft and warm slid off the blade onto my new travelling cloak. Sir Roland watched this happen with the deep satisfaction of a man who has performed a favourite trick. "Second stall from the end," he said, taking Thunder's bridle and leading my horse away as though he'd owned him for years. "When you're done we'll see about supper. And Frederick—" I looked up, dripping. "Everyone starts here. Every knight in that hall started exactly here, with exactly that shovel. Anyone tells you otherwise, they're lying to make themselves grand." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight at the Stables (Version 3)" data-color="blue"> He was waiting for me by the stables, and he had been waiting some while — I could tell by the way the torch he held had burned down almost to his fist, and by the mud dried in rings around his boots. "You came alone," Sir Roland said. I slid from the saddle. My legs did not entirely agree to the plan. "Yes, sir." "No outriders. No escort from the ford." "There was no one at the ford, sir. I waited past midday. Then I came on." He was quiet. The torchlight moved on his face and I could not read it — a narrow face, dark-bearded, older than his straight back suggested. Behind him the horses shifted in their stalls, restless, ears turning. "Six men rode out to meet you three days ago," he said at last. "Six men and a banner." The evening seemed suddenly colder than it had on the open road. "Sir, I—" "Not here." He handed me the guttering torch and took Thunder's reins in both hands, checking the girth, the hooves, the flanks, the way a man checks for something he hopes not to find. "You'll say nothing of this in the hall. Not to the steward, not to the other squires, not to a soul. You had an easy ride and you saw nothing. Do you understand me?" "I don't, sir. Not at all." "Good." For the first time, Sir Roland almost smiled. "Understanding comes later, and it isn't a mercy. Come. There's bread, and there's a bed, and there's a great deal you and I must talk about before the sun comes up." </nc-section>