Run: 2026-10-13-01M4TBQRN9SJDG5YJ749FD3EPN

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: A Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> Frederick had barely swung down from his saddle beside the stables when a broad shadow fell across the straw. “So,” said a deep voice. “You are Frederick.” He turned to find Sir Roland watching him from the stable doorway. The knight was tall and weathered, his dark beard threaded with grey, one hand resting upon the pommel of his sword. His gaze moved from Frederick’s travel-stained cloak to his muddy boots, as if measuring him for a coffin. “Yes, sir,” Frederick said, bowing. “I have come to begin my training.” Sir Roland gave a short, humorless laugh. “Training? Boy, half the squires who arrive here run home before winter. The other half wish they had.” He took Thunder’s reins and nodded toward the castle yard. “See to your horse, eat what the kitchens give you, and be in the practice yard at dawn. If you are late, do not bother coming at all.” Then, without another word, he strode away. Frederick watched him go, his heart pounding — not entirely from fear. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Warm Welcome" data-color="green"> “Frederick! By the saints, look at you!” The booming greeting came just as Frederick led his horse into the stable yard. Sir Roland emerged from between the stalls with a grin wide enough to split his sun-browned face. He clapped Frederick on the shoulder so heartily that the young squire nearly stumbled into a water trough. “You have your father’s eyes and, mercifully, your mother’s nose,” Sir Roland said. “I held you once when you were no bigger than a loaf of bread. You screamed the whole time. A fine set of lungs for a knight, I said.” Frederick laughed, the nervousness of the long journey melting away. “My father sends his regards, sir.” “And he shall have mine, once you’ve learned to swing a sword without cutting your own toes off.” Sir Roland took the reins and called for a stable boy. “Come. You must be hungry, and I want to hear every mile of your road before we make a squire of you tomorrow.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: A Quiet Warning" data-color="blue"> The stables were nearly empty when Frederick arrived, and strangely silent. Even the horses stood still in their stalls, ears pricked toward the darkening hills beyond the castle. “You came by the north road?” Frederick jumped. Sir Roland stepped from the shadows beside the hay loft, his armor muted beneath a plain traveling cloak. He did not smile. “Yes, sir,” Frederick said. “I arrived as quickly as I could.” “Did you see anything on the road? Smoke where no village stands? Tracks in the ash fields?” “No, sir. Nothing.” Sir Roland studied him for a long moment, then nodded, though the tension did not leave his face. “Good. Let us hope it remains nothing.” He lowered his voice. “You will hear tales in this castle, Frederick — tales men laugh at by daylight. Do not repeat them after dark, and if the bells ring three times tonight, come to the yard armed.” Before Frederick could ask what he meant, Sir Roland was gone into the twilight. </nc-section>