Run: 2026-10-20-01M5C6FA21X0044ZZE80MYHCK5

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Weight of a Welcome" data-color="red"> The stable yard smelled of hay, horses, and the first cool breath of evening. Frederick had barely swung down from Thunder’s back when a broad-shouldered knight stepped from between the stalls, his mail dulled by travel and his beard streaked with grey. “So,” the man said, and his voice was rough but not unkind, “you’re the new squire. I’m Sir Roland.” He offered a gloved hand, and his grip was firm enough to remind Frederick of the sword calluses beneath it. “Thunder, is it? He’s got spirit. That’ll serve you better than a pretty saddle.” Sir Roland looked him over once, from dusty boots to wind-tangled hair, and something like approval softened the hard lines of his face. “You’ll find the castle cold at first, boy. Stone always is. But keep your horse brushed, your blade oiled, and your ears open, and you’ll do well enough.” He nodded toward the stable doors. “Come. I’ll show you where to put him before the stew goes cold.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Measure of a Squire" data-color="green"> Sir Roland awaited him by the stable door with the stillness of a man who had learned patience on battlefields. He did not smile. He watched Frederick dismount, watched the way he kept a hand on Thunder’s neck, watched the reins held loose but ready. “Frederick,” he said, not a question. “You’re late.” The words landed like a test. “The sun’s already down, and a squire’s day ends after his duties, not before them.” Frederick opened his mouth, but Sir Roland raised one finger. “No excuses. I’ve no use for them, and neither will your enemies.” Then he stepped closer, and his gaze narrowed. “But you rode that stallion hard and brought him in steady. That tells me something. Perhaps you’ll be worth the training.” He turned sharply toward the stalls. “Unsaddle him yourself. Water him. Then report to the armory. If you can’t tend a horse without being told twice, you can’t tend a knight.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Knight at the Stable Door" data-color="blue"> The stable shadows had grown long by the time Frederick reached them, and Sir Roland stood within those shadows as though he had been waiting there since before sunset. Thunder snorted and sidestepped, and Frederick felt the horse’s sudden unease travel up the reins. “Easy,” Sir Roland murmured, though he did not look at the stallion. He looked at Frederick. “You’ve come at last.” His voice was low and measured, the voice of a man who had seen stranger things than squires arriving at dusk. “I am Sir Roland. You’ll hear I’m the local knight, and that’s true enough. But local knights hear things others do not.” He glanced toward the castle towers, where the first stars burned cold above the banners. “There are old stories in this place, Frederick. Some of them sleep. Some of them only pretend to.” He smiled then, and it was not a comfortable smile. “Keep close to your horse tonight. He’ll know if the dark comes nearer than it should. Now—let’s see to him. We’ve much to speak of before dawn.” </nc-section>