Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GT76RM52JYAHVRG9VEC9ZH

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Iron Greeting" data-color="red"> I dismounted Thunder before the stables, my legs trembling from the long ride. Before I could even secure the reins, a shadow fell over me. "So you're the boy they sent from Ravenshollow." Sir Roland stood with arms crossed, his weathered face carved from years of battle. A scar ran from his left eyebrow to his jaw. He looked me up and down the way a smith inspects raw ore. "Frederick, sir. I've come to begin my training." "Training," he scoffed, snatching Thunder's reins from my hands. "You rode that beast into the ground. A squire who neglects his horse neglects his duty." He led Thunder toward the stable doors, then paused. "Dawn comes early, boy. If you're not in the training yard when the cock crows, you'll be back on the road home before the sun clears the eastern wall." I swallowed hard. I had heard tales of Sir Roland's cruelty. I had not heard that every one of them was true. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Knight's Welcome" data-color="green"> The stable boy took Thunder's reins as I dismounted, and I stretched my aching back with a groan I couldn't suppress. "Long ride from Ravenshollow, is it?" I turned to find a knight leaning against the stable door, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. His armor was well-worn but polished, and a sprig of dried rosemary was tucked into his pauldron—odd decoration for a warrior. "Sir Roland?" I asked, bowing quickly. "I'm Frederick. It's an honor to—" "None of that bowing," he laughed, clapping a hand on my shoulder that nearly buckled my knees. "Save your bones for the training yard. Come, you must be starving. Cook made honeyed partridge tonight, and if we're quick about it, there might still be some left before the huntsmen devour it all." As we walked, he pointed out the armory, the chapel, and the old well where, he claimed, a princess had once hidden from a dragon for three days. "But that's a story for after supper," he winked. "You'll have plenty of time for stories, lad. Tomorrow, the real work begins." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Watchful Knight" data-color="blue"> I heard him before I saw him—the soft jingle of chainmail shifting in the shadows of the stable archway. "You took the river road," Sir Roland said. It was not a question. I froze, my hand still on Thunder's bridle. "Yes, sir. How did you—" "Mud on your boots. Red clay from the riverbanks. The mountain path would have saved you two days' travel." He stepped into the dying light, and I noticed then how still he was, how his eyes never rested in one place for long. They swept the courtyard, the battlements, the darkening sky beyond. "But the mountain path passes beneath the Burnt Peaks. And no one travels beneath the Burnt Peaks anymore." A cold wind stirred the banners above us. Somewhere far off, or perhaps I only imagined it, came a sound like distant thunder on a cloudless night. Sir Roland's gaze finally settled on me, and something unreadable passed through his expression—pity, perhaps, or warning. "Get some rest, Frederick of Ravenshollow. You've arrived at a strange hour in the kingdom's history. I only pray you're what the old prophecies promised." </nc-section>