Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YJ1V86SVBZD226CBEKMQ6D

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: A Gruff Welcome" data-color="red"> I had just swung down from Thunder’s saddle when a broad-shouldered man stepped out of the stable shadows. His temples were gray, his leather jerkin was scarred at the shoulders, and he wore no ornament beyond a plain steel sword at his hip. “You’ll be Frederick,” he said. “I’m Sir Roland. Save the bow for someone who enjoys it.” I straightened, one hand still halfway to my knee. Roland’s mouth twitched, though whether with amusement or disapproval I could not tell. He took Thunder’s reins and ran a practiced hand along the stallion’s neck. “Good horse. Better than most riders deserve.” Before I could decide whether I had been insulted, he passed the reins back to me. “Walk him until he’s cool. Then water, feed, and brush him down. A squire’s first duty is to the creature that carried him here.” Together we led Thunder toward an empty stall. At the stable door, Roland glanced back at me. “Courtyard at dawn,” he said. “Bring your sword, your wits, and whatever courage you have left. We’ll discover soon enough if any of it is worth keeping.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The First Lesson" data-color="green"> Sir Roland was waiting beside the stable doors, motionless as one of the castle’s stone sentinels. Rain-dark mail showed beneath his open cloak, and a thin white scar crossed his chin. “Frederick,” he said as I dismounted. It was not a question. I bowed. “Sir. I’m honored—” “Honor can wait.” He stepped past me and examined Thunder, from the foam on his bridle to the dust caked above his hooves. “You rode him hard.” “Only across the last field.” Roland looked at me then, and I felt suddenly younger than my years. “Then you have already learned how easily a man excuses himself.” Heat rose in my face, but he offered no time for protest. He unfastened Thunder’s saddle and nodded toward the stable yard. “Walk him. Slowly. When he is cool, you may water him. Not before.” His expression softened by the smallest degree. “Your training does not begin tomorrow, Frederick. It began the moment you thought no one was watching. Now show me that my judgment of you can be improved.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Dragon’s Badge" data-color="blue"> The man brushing a chestnut mare near the stables looked more like a groom than a knight. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and there was straw in his iron-gray hair. “Frederick, isn’t it?” he asked. “You’re later than expected, but Thunder seems to have forgiven you. That’s promising.” Only when he turned did I see the longsword resting against the stall door. I bowed so quickly that I nearly struck my head on Thunder’s neck. “Sir Roland?” “None other.” He produced an apple from his pocket and offered it to my horse. “You expected plumes and polish?” “I expected… less straw.” Roland laughed, and some of the tightness left my chest. As he helped me with the saddle, I noticed the badge on his jerkin: a dragon curled around a broken lance, worked in thread so faded it was almost invisible. He caught me staring. “An old story,” he said quietly. “Learn to keep your feet in the practice yard, and perhaps I’ll tell it to you.” </nc-section>