Run: 2026-09-23-01M37PW7Z3AC0C704SCWP0NZWN

<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> The stable boy took Thunder's reins as I dismounted, my legs stiff from the long ride. Before I could stretch, a shadow fell across the hay-strewn ground. "So you're the new squire," a voice rumbled like distant thunder. I turned to find Sir Roland standing with arms crossed, his armor gleaming even in the fading light. He was shorter than I had imagined—a stocky man with a beard streaked with grey and a scar that ran from his left ear down to his jaw. His eyes, however, were what held me in place. They were the eyes of a man who had seen things other men only whispered about. "Frederick of Hartmoor, sir," I said, bowing as my father had taught me. "I've come to begin my training." Sir Roland circled me slowly, the way a wolf circles its prey. He stopped behind me, and I felt his calloused hand grip my shoulder. "Hartmoor," he muttered. "That's sheep country. Soft hands and soft heads." He came around to face me again, his expression unreadable. "The last three squires I trained ran home within a month. Crying to their mothers about blisters and bruises." He leaned in close. "Are you going to run, boy?" "No, sir." "We'll see about that." He turned toward the stable doors, his cloak sweeping behind him. "Stall three needs mucking before the moon rises. Then report to the kitchens. You'll eat last, after the servants, until you've earned better." He paused at the doorway. "And Frederick—" he said without turning, "—if I catch you shirking, you'll wish the dragon had gotten to you first." I stood frozen. *The dragon.* I had thought it only a legend. But the way Sir Roland said it—with that hard edge of something almost like fear—told me the stories were true. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> The stables smelled of hay, leather, and horse—a scent that instantly reminded me of home. As I led Thunder into a stall, I heard footsteps behind me, accompanied by a low, warm chuckle. "Easy now, big fellow," a kind voice said, extending a hand toward Thunder's snout. The stallion, who never took to strangers, lowered his head and nickered softly. I stared in disbelief. "That's remarkable," I said. "He doesn't usually take to people." "Ah, horses are honest judges of character," the man said with a wink. He was tall and broad-shouldered, though his age showed in the silver at his temples and the deep lines around his eyes—lines that came from smiling, I thought, not scowling. "Sir Roland, at your service. And you must be Frederick." "You know my name?" "I make it my business to know the names of those who'll be sleeping under my roof." He helped me unsaddle Thunder with practiced ease, his hands moving with the familiarity of a man who had done this a thousand times. "Your father wrote to me last spring. He speaks of you highly. Says you can ride before you can walk, and you've got a good heart." I felt my cheeks warm. "He exaggerates, sir." "Good fathers always do." Sir Roland laughed, a booming sound that made the stable cats scatter. "Come, lad. You've had a long ride, and the evening meal is nearly ready. My wife, Eleanor, makes a stew that could raise the dead." He slung my travel pack over his shoulder before I could protest. "Training begins at dawn, mind you. But tonight, you eat at my table and sleep under a proper roof. A squire who isn't cared for cannot learn to care for others." As we walked toward the manor house, I noticed the way Sir Roland paused at the gate and looked toward the distant mountains, his smile fading for just a moment before he turned back to me. "Tell me, Frederick," he said quietly, "what do you know of dragons?" </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> The stables were empty when I arrived, save for the horses shifting restlessly in their stalls. What struck me first was how quiet it was—too quiet. Not a bird sang from the rafters. Not a cricket chirped in the grass. Even Thunder's hooves seemed muffled against the packed earth, as though the whole world were holding its breath. "You feel it too, then." The voice came from the shadows at the far end of the stable, and I jumped, my hand flying to the knife at my belt. A figure stepped into the amber light of the lanterns: a knight in weathered armor, his hand resting not on a sword, but on the neck of a grey mare who watched me with dark, knowing eyes. "Sir Roland?" I asked. "The horses have been skittish for three days," he said, ignoring my question as though it were obvious. "Won't settle. Won't eat. They know something is coming." He studied me with pale, penetrating eyes—eyes that seemed to look not at me, but through me, into the story I had not yet begun to live. "You rode here from the south, boy. Did you see anything on the road? Shadows where there should be none? Dead fires that still smoked?" "N-no, sir. Nothing." "Nothing," he repeated, and something like disappointment—or was it relief?—crossed his weathered face. "Good. That means we still have time." He took Thunder's reins from my hand and led him into a stall himself, murmuring something in a low tongue I did not recognize. Thunder immediately calmed, his ears flicking forward. "You came to be a squire," Sir Roland said, still facing away from me. "To learn the sword, the lance, the ways of chivalry. That is well and good." He turned, and in the lantern light his scarred face looked carved from old oak. "But I did not send for you by accident, Frederick of Hartmoor. There is a reason you are here, and it has less to do with knighthood than with what sleeps in the northern peaks—and what is beginning to wake." Somewhere far off, beyond the fields and the darkening forest, I thought I heard a sound like a mountain sighing. Sir Roland did not seem surprised. </nc-section>