Run: 2026-09-23-01M36TBCMDF8M2Q1RHK27KSMXG

<nc-section data-title="The Chronicles of the Last Dragon - Version 1" data-color="red"> The moment Thunder slowed to a trot within the castle walls, a towering figure emerged from the shadow of the stables. He was broad as a barrel, with a thick auburn beard and armor that had seen better decades. A long scar traced its way from his left eyebrow to his jaw. "Well, well," the man boomed, clapping a gauntleted hand onto Thunder's reins with surprising gentleness. "So you're the boy they've sent me. You look half-starved. Did they feed you at all on the road?" I straightened in the saddle, trying to look taller than my fifteen years allowed. "Frederick of Ashwick, sir. Reporting for training." The knight let out a short, gruff laugh. "Sir Roland, Warden of the Eastern Stables, Breaker of the Siege at Greymoor, and—on occasion—mucker of stalls when the squires shirk their duties." He squinted up at me. "Which you will not do. Not if you want to keep your teeth." He took Thunder's bridle and began leading him toward an empty stall. "The horse is good stock. Better than you deserve. Curried and watered, he'll be, and you'll be the one to do it. Then supper. Then sleep. Training begins when the bells ring for Prime, and if you're late, you'll run the yard until your legs give out." I swallowed hard and slid from the saddle. "Yes, Sir Roland." "Good lad." He tossed me a worn leather brush. "Start with the flanks. And Frederick—welcome to the castle. It's a hard road from here, but there are worse roads than this one." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Chronicles of the Last Dragon - Version 2" data-color="green"> I brought Thunder to a halt beside the stables, and there, leaning against a fence post with a piece of straw between his teeth, waited a man I could only assume was a knight. He was lean and weathered, with silver-threaded dark hair and calm, watchful eyes. No armor, only a simple tunic and riding boots—but a longsword hung at his hip, and he carried himself like a man who had never once doubted his own skill. "You ride well," he said, his voice quiet and unhurried. He plucked the straw from his mouth and offered me an easy smile. "But you hold the reins too tightly. A frightened grip makes for a frightened horse." I blinked, surprised. "I—thank you, sir. I'm Frederick. The squire." "Sir Roland." He pushed off the fence and walked toward us, running a hand lightly along Thunder's neck. The horse nickered approvingly. "Your mount likes me better than you already. That's a lesson in itself." He looked me over with those quiet eyes—not unkindly, but with the careful attention of a man appraising raw ore. "You're young. Nervous. But there's something in your spine that hasn't broken yet. Good. We'll see if it stays that way." He gestured toward the stable yard, where other young men were hauling hay and scrubbing tack in the fading light. "Put your horse away, find your bunk, and get some rest. Tomorrow I'll show you what a sword is truly for—and I promise you, boy, it isn't what the songs say." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Chronicles of the Last Dragon - Version 3" data-color="blue"> The stable yard was a chaos of noise and movement—boys shouting, horses stamping, iron ringing against iron—until suddenly it all fell quiet. A man stepped out from between the stalls, and the squires parted before him like water around a stone. He was enormous. Not merely tall, but monumental, with shoulders like a draft horse and hands that could have palm a shield whole. His dark skin was mapped with pale scars, and his shaved head gleamed with sweat despite the cooling evening. When he looked at me, I felt as though an avalanche had paused to consider me. "Frederick," he said. It was not a question. "Y-yes, sir." My voice cracked like a boy's, and I hated it. "Sir Roland." He said his name the way a mountain might announce itself. "Dismount." I did, quickly. My legs nearly buckled—not from the ride, but from him. He walked a slow circle around me and Thunder, saying nothing. The other squires watched in silence. When he completed his circle, he stopped in front of me and held out a hand the size of a dinner plate. "Your dagger," he said. I handed him the small knife my father had given me. He examined it, tested the edge with his thumb, and nodded once. Then he looked at me again, and for the first time, something like warmth entered his dark eyes. "Good. You carried it. Many boys leave their first blade at home, ashamed of its size." He handed it back and rested that great hand on my shoulder. Its weight was immense and oddly steadying. "A knight is not made by the length of his sword, Frederick. He is made by the choice to draw it. Remember that. Now—your horse needs care, and so do you. Come." </nc-section>