Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GVTWATHTXQB1QA6K27YAZN

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Arrival — Version 1" data-color="red"> As I dismounted near the stables, a towering figure emerged from the shadows of the archway. Sir Roland, the local knight, stood nearly seven feet tall, his armor scratched and dented from countless battles. His gray beard was braided with small iron rings, each one a token from a fallen foe. "You must be Frederick," he rumbled, his voice like distant thunder. "The boy who traveled three days to become a squire." I bowed low, my heart pounding. "Yes, my lord. I am honored to—" "Save your honors," he interrupted, though a hint of warmth flickered in his weathered eyes. "We'll see if you still feel honored after your first week of training. Now, tend to your horse. A squire who neglects his steed neglects his duty." I turned to Thunder, but Sir Roland's heavy hand fell upon my shoulder. "And Frederick," he said quietly, "look at the castle when you finish. Really look at it. By the time your training ends, you'll never see it the same way again." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Arrival — Version 2" data-color="green"> The stable master took Thunder's reins, and that's when I noticed him—a knight leaning against the fence, watching me with an amused expression. Sir Roland was younger than I had imagined, perhaps thirty-five, with a crooked nose that had clearly been broken more than once. "Frederick of Millbrook?" he asked, pushing off from the fence. "I half expected you to arrive by carriage. Your father's letter made you sound... softer." I stiffened. "My father wanted me to take the clerical path. I chose differently." "Did you now?" Sir Roland circled me slowly, appraising my frame like a merchant examining livestock. "Skinny arms. Good shoulders, though. And those hands—farmer's hands?" "Blacksmith's son, my lord." His eyebrows rose with genuine interest. "A blacksmith's son! Well then, you'll appreciate the weight of a sword more than most. Come, walk with me. The stew in the great hall is terrible, but it's hot, and you'll want to hear about the dragon before you sleep." I froze mid-step. "Dragon?" Sir Roland grinned, and for the first time, I saw the exhaustion beneath his humor. "Every squire asks eventually. Best you know now what you've truly ridden into." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Arrival — Version 3" data-color="blue"> The stables smelled of hay and horse sweat, a comfort after three long days on the road. I was unsaddling Thunder when I heard footsteps behind me—soft, deliberate, nothing like a stablehand's shuffle. "You groom your horse before you groom yourself. Good instincts." I turned to find a woman in a knight's cloak, silver-streaked hair tied back, a longsword at her hip. For a moment I didn't understand—then it struck me. *Sir* Roland. Not the grizzled old warrior I had pictured, but her. "I'm Sir Roland," she confirmed, reading my surprise with a wry smile. "Yes, I know what they told you in the villages. Let me guess—gray beard, scars, voice like a landslide?" "Something like that," I admitted, feeling my cheeks burn. "Well, the beard never suited me." She ran a hand down Thunder's neck, and my horse—wary of strangers since the day I bought him—leaned into her touch. "You'll begin at dawn. Until then, eat something and sleep. The last squire who arrived here skipped his rest and fainted in the training yard before the first bell." "What happened to him?" I asked. Sir Roland's expression darkened, just slightly. "That, Frederick, is a story for another night." </nc-section>