Run: 2026-10-13-01M4TAJWYYBQ6N1YHJ8RX6D763

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Stern Greeting" data-color="red"> As I led Thunder toward the stables, a towering figure emerged from the shadows of the hayloft. Sir Roland stood with his arms crossed, his weathered face betraying nothing. "So. You're the boy they sent." His voice was gravel and iron. He circled me slowly, eyes narrowing as they traced my worn boots, my secondhand tunic, the calluses on my palms. "Late, underfed, and riding a horse too fine for you. Not an auspicious beginning, Frederick." I opened my mouth to explain the washed-out bridge at Miller's Crossing, but he raised a gauntleted hand. "Save it. Excuses are the first thing I beat out of my squires." He nodded toward Thunder. "Stable him yourself. Brush him down, check his hooves, muck the stall. A knight who cannot care for his mount cannot be trusted with a sword." He turned to leave, then paused. "Supper is at seventh bell. Miss it, and you miss your only meal until dawn." I watched him stride across the courtyard, and something in my chest hardened with resolve. I would not break. Not for him. Not for anyone. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Warm Welcome" data-color="green"> A booming laugh echoed across the stable yard before I ever saw its source. "Frederick! By the saints, look at you—half-grown into that tunic already!" Sir Roland emerged from the stables wiping his hands on a rag, his broad face split by a grin beneath a wild grey beard. "I knew your father, lad. He once outdrank me, outwrestled me, and out-sung me all in the same evening. Worst night of my life." He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to rattle my teeth, then immediately softened, taking Thunder's reins from my hands. "Here, let me show you the good stall—the one near the window where the morning sun comes in. A fine horse deserves a fine home, and this," he ran a practiced hand along Thunder's neck, "is a very fine horse indeed." As we walked, he pointed out the castle's quirks with the pride of a man showing off his own children: the kitchen where Cook Marta always had "extra" bread for growing squires, the training yard where I'd "earn every bruise with honor," and the old tower where, he said with a wink, the best stories lived. "You're nervous," he said gently as we settled Thunder into his stall. It wasn't a question. "Good. Means you understand what you've signed up for. But hear me, lad—every knight in that hall was once a boy holding reins with shaking hands." He smiled. "Even me." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Strange Warning" data-color="blue"> Sir Roland was waiting by the stables, but he wasn't looking at me. He was staring at the sky to the east, where the last light of sunset bled into darkness over the mountains. "You feel it too, don't you?" he said quietly, still not turning. "The stillness. The birds went quiet an hour before you arrived." I shifted uneasily, unsure whether this was some test. Now he looked at me, and I saw something unexpected in his eyes—not judgment, but a deep and careful study, as if searching my face for an answer to a question he hadn't asked. "Frederick." He said my name slowly, tasting it. "Your mother chose that name, didn't she?" He didn't wait for my nod. "Old name. Older than this kingdom. It means 'peaceful ruler,' though the first man to bear it was anything but." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "The first Frederick was a dragonsworn." The word struck me like a cold wind. Everyone knew the stories—and everyone knew they were only stories. The dragons were gone. The last one had died centuries ago. Sir Roland straightened, his manner shifting abruptly to gruff normality, as if a door had slammed shut. "Stable your horse. Supper's at seventh bell." He strode away, then called over his shoulder, "Sleep lightly tonight, boy. The mountains have been dreaming of fire." I stood alone in the gathering dark, Thunder's breath warm against my shoulder, and wondered what I had truly come to this castle to become. </nc-section>