Run: 2026-07-25-01KYD7RPW2JEYKH33KF0E5P92P

<nc-section data-title="The Greeting at the Stables - Version 1" data-color="red"> I had barely swung down from Thunder's saddle, my legs stiff from the long ride, when a gruff voice called out from the shadow of the stable doors. "You're late. And that horse looks half-starved." A broad-shouldered man in a dented breastplate stepped into the light, wiping his hands on a rag. His beard was more grey than brown, and a thin white scar ran down his left cheek. "You must be Frederick," he said, not unkindly. "I'm Sir Roland. Master of Arms for this pile of stone. They told me you were coming to be a squire. They didn't tell me you were a boy who doesn't know how to properly cool a horse after a hard ride." He tossed me the rag. "Walk him. Then brush him. Then feed him. Then and only then do you come find me in the yard. We’ll see if you’re worth training." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Greeting at the Stables - Version 2" data-color="green"> The stables smelled of hay and leather and warm horse, a smell that instantly eased the knot in my stomach. I was leading Thunder toward an empty stall when a tall knight in polished mail emerged, carrying two wooden buckets of water with impossible ease. "You would be Frederick of Oakhollow?" he asked, setting the buckets down and offering a wide, sun-creased smile. "Sir Roland, at your service — though the lads around here just call me Rol. We've been expecting you." He clasped my forearm with a grip like iron wrapped in velvet. His eyes were a startling, kind blue. "Fine animal," he said, nodding to Thunder and rubbing the stallion's nose as if they were old friends. "Any horse that carries its rider all this way deserves a good rest. Come, let's get him settled together, and you can tell me of your journey. Training can wait until morning, but supper cannot." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Greeting at the Stables - Version 3" data-color="blue"> I did not see him at first. Near the stables, where the lanterns had already been lit against the deepening dusk, an old knight sat perfectly still on a barrel, watching me. His armor was hung neatly on a post beside him, and he wore only a simple padded gambeson. A longsword rested across his knees. "That is a war horse," he said quietly as I approached. "Not a show pony." I stopped short. "Yes, sir." "Thunder," he said, reading the name burned into the saddle. He looked up at me then, his face etched with age but his gaze sharp as steel. "I am Sir Roland." Frederick knelt hastily, as he had been taught. "Rise," Roland said. "We do not kneel in the mud to men here. We stand. I have been told the dragons may have returned, young Frederick. The King wants squires who can hold a lance. I want squires who know why they hold it. Which kind will you be?" He stood then, lifting his sword in one smooth motion. "Leave your horse to the stableboy. Come with me." </nc-section>