Run: 2026-09-02-01M1HH6XH429T29K5KB2Z2ETDS

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: A Knight of the Old School" data-color="red"> Thunder’s hooves slowed to a trot as the castle gates loomed before me, and I urged him toward the stables where the smell of hay, leather, and horse sweat hung thick in the twilight. A knight stood beneath the arched entrance, one gauntleted hand resting on the doorframe as if he had been waiting for me all day. “Frederick of Ashworth,” he said, studying me with sharp gray eyes that did not bother to soften. “You’re late.” I slid from the saddle and managed a bow as best I could with my travel clothes rumpled and mud on my boots. “The roads were poor, my lord.” “Sir Roland,” he corrected. “Here you will be a squire before you are anything else, and squires do not get to be poor travelers. Give me your reins.” I handed them to him, and he passed them to a groom without looking, as though he had long since learned to notice everything without turning his head. He walked around me slowly, inspecting my sword, my satchel, and the way I held myself. “You’re thin,” Sir Roland said finally. “Good. Thin men learn faster than fat ones. Come. Your duties begin before the moon is high, and by the time I’m finished with you, you’ll be glad the roads were only poor.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Greeting in the Stables" data-color="green"> The stables were a place of lantern light and shifting shadows, and I had barely dismounted before a broad figure emerged from the bay where Thunder would be led to a stall. He moved easily, as if he had spent so many years among horses that he belonged to them as much as to men. His armor bore the same sigil I had seen on the banners, though his surcoat was dark with travel stains. “Frederick,” the knight said, and smiled. “You made better time than I expected.” I stared at him. “You knew?” “I knew a boy with your coloring and your stubborn jaw would come riding in somewhere before supper.” He extended a hand, not in greeting, but to steady me when Thunder shifted beside us. “Sir Roland. Your instructor, whether you like it or not.” His voice was warm, but there was nothing careless about him. He glanced at my sword, my saddlebags, my hands, and the little nick on my thumb from a blisters that had not healed. “You’ll need different hands,” he said, gently turning my fingers over as if they were reins he intended to adjust. “These are too soft. But they’ll do. Come in here and meet the horses first. If you can earn their trust, you’ll earn mine faster.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: Near the Stable Door" data-color="blue"> I brought Thunder to a stop outside the stables, where the air smelled of wet grain and old wood. The last of the day’s light touched the tiles on the roof, and in that golden slant stood a knight, watching me with the quiet attention of a hawk perched above a field. “You’re Frederick,” he said. It was not a question. “I am, sir.” The knight stepped forward. His armor was polished, but his boots were scuffed in the pattern of a man who walked a great deal. He inclined his head with formal courtesy. “Sir Roland, captain of the guard and keeper of this castle’s honor. Your arrival has been noted.” I bowed again. “I am here to begin training.” “Indeed you are.” His smile did not reach his eyes, though it was not unkind. “The first lesson will take place here.” He pointed toward Thunder. “You will learn to care for a warhorse before you touch a weapon. A knight without a horse is only a man. A squire who fears horses is worse.” He placed a hand on my shoulder and guided me toward the stable door. “Come. The horses have smelled your fear all the way from the gate.” </nc-section>