Run: 2026-09-29-01M3P2AY2FBM3HCZAW3K92X3Z1

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Iron Welcome" data-color="red"> I slid from Thunder's back as the castle gates groaned shut behind me. My legs trembled from the long ride. A stable hand took the reins without a word, and I was left standing in the yard, clutching the letter of introduction my father had pressed into my palm. "You're late." The voice came from the shadow of the stable doors. A man stepped into the last of the sunlight, broad-shouldered and grey at the temples, with a scar running from his left ear to the corner of his jaw. His mail was dull from years of use, and every line of him looked as if it had been hammered into shape. "Sir Roland?" I asked. "Aye." His eyes moved over me, from my dusty boots to my crooked collar, and lingered on the sword at my hip, which I had never once drawn in anger. "Your father wrote that you were promising. He did not write that you were punctual." "The roads were poor, sir. I..." "Excuses are heavy things, boy. Put them down." His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Rise before dawn. Feed the horses before you feed yourself. Do that, and we'll see whether you're a squire or only a lad in borrowed armor." I nodded, swallowing hard. As he turned away, I realized I was standing straighter than I had in weeks. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Warm Hand at the Stables" data-color="green"> The stables smelled of hay and warm horses, and after the long ride it was the most welcome scent in the world. I had barely dismounted when a booming laugh rolled across the yard. "By the saints, is that Thunder? I'd know that stride anywhere!" A knight strode toward us with his arms spread wide, his red cloak snagging on a fence post as he came. He was round-cheeked and bearded, with laugh lines deep around his eyes. He stopped to wrestle the cloak free, muttering cheerfully, then gave up and greeted Thunder first, scratching the stallion's nose. "Sir Roland," he said at last, finally turning to me and clasping my forearm in a grip like a blacksmith's vise. "And you must be Frederick. Your father and I fought side by side at Harrow Ford. He still owes me a wineskin, you know. Tell him I said so." I laughed in spite of my nerves. "I will, sir." "Good lad. Come, there's stew in the kitchens and a cot in the barracks with your name chalked above it. Tomorrow you'll learn which end of a lance is the dangerous one." He winked. "Tonight, you eat." For the first time since leaving home, I felt the knot in my chest loosen. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Knight Who Watched the Sky" data-color="blue"> Dusk was settling into the courtyard when I led Thunder toward the stables. The torches had not yet been lit, and the shadows between the buildings seemed deeper than they should have been. A figure stood at the far end of the stalls, perfectly still, with his face turned toward the darkening sky. I might have taken him for a statue if his breath had not misted in the cool air. "Few travelers arrive at this hour," he said without looking down. "Fewer still arrive before the omens are read." "Sir Roland?" I ventured. He turned. He was lean and weathered, and his eyes were the pale grey of winter clouds. A pendant of black glass hung at his throat, and he touched it lightly as he studied me, as though it might tell him something my face would not. "You've come to be a squire," he said. "Do you know what this castle guards, boy?" "The eastern border, sir." "That is what we tell the villagers." He took Thunder's bridle in his gloved hand, and the stallion, who bit strangers, stood calm as a lamb. "Come inside, Frederick. There are things you should learn before the moon rises. And some you should not, not yet." Far above us, something vast blotted out a handful of stars, and was gone. </nc-section>