Run: 2026-09-03-01M1K59FTVKG9AY6H8W2YYJZH5

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: Steel and Scorn" data-color="red"> I had barely swung down from Thunder's saddle when a shadow fell across the stable yard. "So. Another whelp come to play at war," a gravel voice growled. Sir Roland stood with arms crossed over his dented breastplate, his beard flecked with grey and stable straw. He looked me up and down, then at my lathered horse, and snorted. "You rode him hard on soft ground, boy. Stables are that way. Rub him down yourself — squires in my yard tend their own beasts before they tend their bellies. Frederick, is it? We'll see how long you last." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Warm Welcome" data-color="green"> Thunder snorted and stamped as I led him into the cool shade of the stables, the smell of hay and leather washing over me. A broad laugh rang out. "Well met, traveler! You must be Frederick." Sir Roland emerged from a stall, sleeves rolled, a curry brush in one gauntleted hand. His eyes were kind beneath his scarred brow. He clasped my forearm in the warrior's grip. "Welcome to Thornwall, lad. Your master wrote that you have a steady seat and a steady heart. Come, let's get this fine Thunder settled — then we'll get you bread and stew. Training starts at dawn, but tonight, you rest as a guest." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: Omen at Dusk" data-color="blue"> Dusk had turned the stable yard blue when I dismounted, my legs stiff from the long ride. The lanterns were just being lit. From the dark of the archway, Sir Roland appeared quietly, leading no horse, carrying no blade. He studied me for a long moment. "Frederick," he said at last, as if tasting the name. "I knew your father." He took Thunder's reins gently and ran a hand down the stallion's neck to calm him. "The dragons are gone, they say. But the old blood still stirs. Come with me, boy. There is much you must learn here — and not all of it about swords." </nc-section>