Run: 2026-07-25-01KYD61WNJAQX5D8AJ8SKG4DZ6

<nc-section data-title="Version 1 - The Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> The clatter of Thunder's hooves on the cobblestones near the stables had barely faded when a broad-shouldered figure stepped into Frederick's path. "You'll want to rein in that beast before he kicks half my stable down," the man said, arms crossed over a tarnished breastplate. His beard was close-cropped and grey, but his eyes were sharp. Frederick scrambled down from the saddle, his legs stiff. "Sir Roland?" "The same." The knight looked him up and down, from mud-spattered boots to his awkward grip on the reins. "So you're the new squire they've sent me. Frederick, is it? The steward said you'd arrive before noon. The sun is nearly gone." "I — the road from Lowhill was washed out, sir. I had to go around through—" Roland held up a hand. "Save your excuses for the training yard. A knight arrives when he says he will. A squire should learn the same." He took Thunder's reins from Frederick's hands with practiced ease and led the stallion toward an empty stall. "Stow your gear. Water him, brush him, and then find me in the armory. If you're going to wear our colors, you need to earn them first." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2 - The Warm Welcome" data-color="green"> Frederick had just dismounted by the stables and was trying to calm Thunder — who was snorting at the unfamiliar smells of hay and iron — when a laugh boomed behind him. "Well, well! That's a fine horse for a lad who looks like he's been riding for three days straight without a meal!" A tall knight in a gambeson with his sleeves rolled to his elbows came striding over, a bucket of oats in one hand. His hair was ginger streaked with silver, and his face was weathered but kind. "You must be Frederick," he said, setting the bucket down and offering a gauntleted hand. "I'm Roland. Keeper of this fine mess of horses and squires." Frederick took his hand, relieved. "Yes, sir. Sir Roland. I am — I was sent to—" "To train, to learn, to muck out stalls like the rest of us did, aye," Roland grinned and took Thunder's reins. "Easy, lad, easy. Oh, not you," he winked at Frederick, "the horse." Thunder nudged Roland's shoulder, already calmer. "Come on," Roland said, leading both horse and boy into the shade of the stable. "Let's get this big fellow settled. Then I'll get you some bread and stew. The castle can wait until morning to chew you up. Tonight, you rest." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3 - The Quiet Welcome" data-color="blue"> The stables were quieter than Frederick expected. Most of the horses had already been bedded down for the night, their heads hanging low over stall doors. He led Thunder inside, the sound of his own breathing loud in the dim, hay-scented air. "You are late." Frederick spun. A knight sat on a bale of hay near the back, sharpening a blunt practice sword with a whetstone. He hadn't even noticed him. The knight's armor lay stacked neatly beside him, and he wore only a simple grey tunic. This had to be Sir Roland — older than Frederick imagined, with a long scar running from his temple to his jaw. "Sir Roland! I— I'm Frederick, the new—" "I know who you are," Roland said, not unkindly. He set the sword aside. The rhythmic scraping stopped, and the silence felt heavier. "I sent two others away this year. They wanted glory. Ballads. They didn't want to wake before dawn to feed animals." He stood, and though he was not a giant of a man, there was a weight to him. "Do you know how to care for your horse, Frederick?" "Yes, sir. My father taught me." "Then show me." Roland stepped back, watching. No more words, no help offered. Frederick swallowed his nerves, took the brush from his saddlebag, and began to work, feeling the knight's steady gaze on him as the last light of sunset faded through the stable doors. </nc-section>