Run: 2026-07-25-01KYD5GTVVTY5P2KGSGBXJSATA

<nc-section data-title="The Greeting - Version 1" data-color="red"> Frederick had barely swung down from Thunder's saddle when a voice boomed across the stable yard. "So you're the new whelp they've sent me to shape into a knight!" A broad-shouldered man in a dented breastplate stood with his arms crossed, his beard more grey than brown, his eyes sharp despite his grin. The smell of hay and horse sweat clung to him. Frederick fumbled into a bow so quickly he nearly dropped his reins. "Sir Roland, sir?" "The same." Roland stepped forward and took Thunder's reins, running a practiced hand down the stallion's neck. "Fine horse. Strong legs. Better breeding than most squires we get. I'm Roland of the Ash Gate, Master-at-Arms of this castle. And you must be Frederick." "Yes, my lord." "None of that 'my lord' muck. 'Sir' will do until you earn the right to be annoying. Come on, lad. Stable your beast, and I'll show you where you'll be sleeping before you get any grand ideas about the castle proper." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Greeting - Version 2" data-color="green"> The stables were cooler than the yard outside, dim and filled with the soft shuffling of horses. Frederick was trying to unbuckle his saddle, fingers stiff from the long ride, when he heard the slow clink of chainmail behind him. "You look lost, boy. That's usually a bad sign for a squire." Frederick turned. The knight was tall but lean, his polished plate replaced by a simple gambeson, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He held two wooden practice swords under one arm and a bucket of water in the other. His face was kind, weathered by sun. "Sir Roland?" Frederick asked, remembering the letter from the steward. Roland set the bucket down for Thunder and offered his hand. "Knight-Captain Roland, though Sir Roland is fine. I've been expecting you since morning. Your father wrote that you were good with a horse but terrible with a blade. Is that true?" Frederick flushed. "I... I'm eager to learn, Sir." Roland laughed and tossed him one of the wooden swords. "Good. Eagerness is the one thing I can't teach. Welcome to Whitehold, Frederick. Let's see if you can carry water without falling over before supper." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Greeting - Version 3" data-color="blue"> Near the stables, where the castle wall cast its longest shadow, Frederick paused to catch his breath. The courtyard had been bustling, but here it was quiet. He did not notice the knight until the man spoke. "That is not how you tie a warhorse." Frederick spun around, startled. An older knight sat on an overturned barrel, sharpening a dagger, his armor hung neatly on a stand beside him as if even steel needed rest. His tabard bore a faded falcon, the sigil of the castle guard. "Sir - I - " Frederick stammered, looking at the knot he had just made. Sir Roland stood slowly, his knees popping, and walked over. Without a word, he undid Frederick's clumsy knot and retied it with three quick, efficient movements. Thunder immediately settled. "I've had that stall for twenty years," Roland said quietly, not unkindly. "I know every horse that passes through it. And I know every squire, too. You are Frederick, come from Lowbrook?" "Yes, Sir Roland." Roland studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "You have honest eyes. That will have to do for now. Come. The Castellan will want to see you, but first you should know the name of every horse you'll be mucking out after. This one here's Bess." </nc-section>