Run: 2026-09-03-01M1KC8H2HFDXKRYFEFCJVCFCP

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> I had barely swung down from Thunder’s saddle when a figure stepped from the shadow of the stable door. Sir Roland was a broad-shouldered man with a scar that cut through his left eyebrow and a hand that never strayed far from the hilt of his longsword. He did not smile. “So,” he said, his voice like grinding stone. “You’re the squire they sent from the valley.” He looked me up and down, lingering on my worn boots and the too-large sword at my hip. “Thunder, is it?” he added, glancing at my stallion, who tossed his head as if in challenge. “A fine mount for a boy who has yet to prove he can hold a lance.” I opened my mouth to answer, but Sir Roland raised a hand. “Stow your words. The stable’s first stall is free. Rub your horse down, feed him, and then meet me in the training yard before the bell for supper. If you’re late, I’ll know you’re not worth the hay he eats.” He turned and walked away, spurs chiming, leaving me with the smell of straw and the first cold knot of doubt in my stomach. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Warm Handshake" data-color="green"> The stable yard was quiet except for the soft nicker of horses and the rustle of hay. I had just placed my hand on Thunder’s bridle when a man with a straw-colored beard and kind eyes emerged from between the stalls, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Frederick, is it?” Sir Roland asked, and his face split into an easy grin. “I’d know that stubborn set of the shoulders anywhere—you’ve your father’s look about you.” He crossed the distance and clapped me on the arm with a hand that smelled of horse and leather. “Welcome to Castle Stonehaven. The road from the valley is long, and the last stretch is all mud and loose stone. I’ll wager you and this fine stallion could both use a drink.” He didn’t wait for my nod. Instead, he took Thunder’s reins and led him into the cool dimness of the stable, talking to the horse as if they were old friends. “There’s a bucket already drawn for you, lad, and a pile of fresh straw in the corner. Rest a while. We’ll get you settled before the evening meal.” I felt the tension in my shoulders ease for the first time since I had left home. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Quiet Omen" data-color="blue"> I was loosening the girth on Thunder’s saddle when I sensed rather than heard someone approach. The clink of mail was faint, and the man who stood near the stable door wore no helm. Sir Roland had grey at his temples and eyes the color of a winter sky. For a long moment he said nothing, only watched me with the still patience of a hawk watching a field mouse. “You’re early,” he said at last. There was no warmth in the words, but no threat either. “The bell for evening meal hasn’t rung yet.” I dipped my head. “The road was clear, Sir Roland. I made better time than I expected.” He nodded slowly. Then he turned his gaze to the castle walls behind us, where the last red light of the setting sun painted the stone like old blood. “There’s a storm coming,” he said, more to himself than to me. “Not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. We’ll need every sword arm we can trust.” He looked back at me, and his eyes seemed to weigh my soul. “Get your horse stabled. Then come find me in the armory. There are things you should see before you swear your oath.” Without another word, he walked into the deepening shadows, leaving me alone with the first thin edge of night and the uneasy feeling that I had arrived at the castle just in time for something far larger than my training. </nc-section>