Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YGZE47BT0CP6TQ31AHFY17

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The First Lesson" data-color="red"> Frederick led Thunder into the stable yard as the last light faded from the castle walls. A knight stood beside the water trough, his surcoat dusty from the road and his dark hair streaked with grey. He wore no helm, and the sword at his hip looked as though it had seen more use than ornament. “You must be Frederick,” he said. Frederick straightened and bowed. “Yes, sir.” The knight clasped his offered arm. “Sir Roland. Welcome. I would say I hope your journey was pleasant, but your expression suggests otherwise.” “It rained for two days,” Frederick admitted. “Then you are better acquainted with the road than most new squires.” Roland ran a practiced hand along Thunder’s neck. “A fine horse. And a tired one. There’s an empty stall at the end. See him fed and rubbed down, then come to the hall for your own supper.” Frederick hesitated. “Is that my first lesson, sir?” Roland’s stern mouth softened. “Your first lesson is that a knight who neglects his horse will eventually have to walk. The second is that I expect you in the yard at dawn.” As Frederick led Thunder toward the stables, he found himself smiling. Training had not begun with a sword or a glorious oath, but with a tired horse and a knight’s dry laughter behind him. Somehow, that made the castle feel less forbidding. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: What a Squire Is Made Of" data-color="green"> Sir Roland did not look like the knights in Frederick’s favorite songs. His boots were muddy, one sleeve of his surcoat had been inexpertly mended, and he was forking hay beside the stables when Frederick approached. He planted the pitchfork in the ground and studied his new arrival. “Frederick?” Frederick nearly dropped Thunder’s reins in his haste to bow. “Yes, Sir Roland. I’ve come to begin my training.” “So I gathered. The sword was a clue.” Roland’s gaze flicked to the polished hilt at Frederick’s side. “Can you use it?” “I’ve practiced.” “Can you listen?” Frederick paused. “Yes, sir.” “Good. That will prove more useful.” Roland took Thunder’s reins and passed them to a waiting groom, then pulled a wooden practice sword from a rack beside the stable door. He tossed it to Frederick. “Show me.” “Now?” “Unless you require a fanfare.” Frederick barely raised the blade before Roland stepped forward and tapped his wrist, his knee, and finally his chest with three unhurried strokes. Frederick stumbled back against a water barrel. Roland lowered his practice sword. “Excellent.” Rubbing his ribs, Frederick stared at him. “Excellent?” “You didn’t complain, and you’re still holding your sword.” For the first time, Roland smiled. “Welcome to the castle, Frederick. We may make a squire of you yet.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: A Warning on the Wind" data-color="blue"> The horses grew restless before Frederick saw the knight. They stamped in their stalls and tossed their heads, their ears turned toward the darkening hills. Near the stable doors, a tall man in a weathered cloak was murmuring to a frightened mare, one hand resting gently between her eyes. When Frederick approached, the man looked up. “Frederick.” It was not a question. “Yes, sir.” “I am Sir Roland.” He gave the mare a final pat and came forward to clasp Frederick’s arm. His grip was firm, but his attention kept drifting toward the western sky. “You are welcome here, though I fear your arrival is poorly timed.” Frederick glanced behind him. Beyond the castle fields, the mountains had become black shapes against the dusk. “Has something happened?” Roland did not answer immediately. “Did you see anything unusual on the road? Smoke, perhaps? A shadow where no shadow belonged?” “No, sir. Only rain.” A low sound rolled across the valley then—too long and too ragged for thunder. Inside the stables, every horse began to scream. Roland’s hand closed around the pommel of his sword. “Take Thunder inside,” he said quietly. “Bar the doors when you’ve finished.” Frederick felt the hair rise along his arms. “Is it bandits?” “No,” Roland said, still watching the sky. “Bandits do not make horses afraid of the clouds.” </nc-section>