Run: 2026-10-09-01M4FZCC6J3Q5BHEFQ03RJV49Y

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: Sir Roland's Welcome (Version 1)" data-color="red"> I had barely swung down from Thunder's saddle when a broad-shouldered man strode out of the stables, wiping his hands on a leather apron. His grey beard was cropped close, and a thin scar ran from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. He studied me for a long moment, his eyes lingering on my dusty boots and the travel-worn cloak on my shoulders. "You must be the new squire," he said, his voice rough as gravel. "Frederick, is it? I am Sir Roland. I hold this keep and every stable boy, horse, and fool who wanders into it." He clapped a hand on Thunder's neck, and the stallion snorted approvingly. "Good animal. Someone has taken care of him on the road. That is more than I can say for most who come through here with fine horses and empty heads." I straightened my back and met his gaze. "I did my best to see him fed and rested, sir." Sir Roland grunted, which I took to be the closest thing to praise I would receive that evening. "Good. Stable him, then report to the armory before the bell. Training begins at dawn, and I do not tolerate tardiness. Here, you will learn to earn your keep, or you will learn to leave." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: A Stranger in the Yard (Version 2)" data-color="green"> Near the stables, a cluster of horses shifted and whinnied at the scent of new arrivals. Between them stood a tall knight in weathered plate armor, the metal dulled by years of use rather than neglect. He was watching me with an expression that was not unkind, only measuring. "Frederick of the western marches," he said, and it was not a question. "I received the letter from your mother's cousin. Sir Roland. I will be your first instructor, so you may as well learn my face now." He stepped closer and offered his hand. His grip was firm, and I noticed the calluses across his palm, the kind earned from years of swordplay rather than reins. "Thunder, is it?" His eyes moved to the stallion, and a faint smile touched his lips. "A fine name for a fine beast. You will need to groom him yourself each evening. A squire who cannot care for his own mount will never be trusted with a knight's. Tonight, rest. Tomorrow, we begin, and I warn you now, I expect more than a polite nod from you." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Knight by the Stables (Version 3)" data-color="blue"> The stable doors creaked open, and a figure emerged into the lantern light. It was Sir Roland, the local knight whose name had been spoken with respect in every village I had passed. He was not what I expected. He wore no polished plate, only a simple tunic and a sword belt, and he carried a bucket of water as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. "Ah. The boy from the western road," he said, setting the bucket down with a soft thud. "You rode in just as the light failed. Good timing, or poor, depending on how you feel about cold beds and colder porridge." He approached Thunder, running a careful hand along the stallion's flank and checking each hoof with practiced ease. "He is sound. You rode him hard, but not cruelly. I can tell that much from the way he carries himself." Sir Roland turned back to me, and for the first time his expression softened. "Your training will be harder than anything you have faced on the road, Frederick. But I have a feeling you will not run from it. Come. Let us see you settled before the night grows any colder." </nc-section>