Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YJAXP97F2DDPNWNGEHBZKV

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: First Lessons" data-color="red"> I had barely slid from Thunder’s saddle when a man stepped out from beneath the stable eaves. He wore no plumed helm or polished breastplate, only a plain surcoat over mail darkened by years of use. Yet the stableboys straightened as he passed, and I knew at once that this was Sir Roland. “Frederick,” he said. It was not a question. “Yes, sir.” His gaze traveled from my dust-covered boots to the hilt of my practice sword. Then he offered me his hand. His grip was firm enough to make my fingers ache. “Welcome to the castle. Tomorrow, we will discover what your teachers neglected to mention.” His stern expression softened by a fraction. “Tonight, you will tend to your horse. A knight who ignores the creature that carries him has already failed his first lesson.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Kindly Welcome" data-color="green"> Sir Roland greeted Thunder before he greeted me. He was waiting beside the stable doors, a broad-shouldered man with gray at his temples and hay clinging to one boot. While I struggled to dismount with anything resembling dignity, he took the bridle and murmured something to the stallion. Thunder, who ordinarily suffered strangers with biting contempt, lowered his head and snorted contentedly against the knight’s shoulder. “You’ve made a friend,” I said. “Horses are easier than squires.” Sir Roland turned to me, smiling. “Frederick, isn’t it? Welcome. I am Roland, though half the castle seems determined to make a legend of me. You may call me Sir Roland until you discover how exaggerated the stories are.” A stableboy led Thunder away, and the knight gestured toward the lamplit yard. “Come. Training can wait until morning. Supper should not.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Worn Silver Clasp" data-color="blue"> No trumpet announced Sir Roland. He was simply there beside the stables, standing so still that I mistook him for a shadow until he spoke. “Frederick.” The evening air seemed to grow colder. I dismounted and bowed, nearly tangling one foot in Thunder’s reins. “I am Sir Roland,” he said, sparing me the trouble of inventing a graceful reply. Up close, he looked younger than his reputation and older than his eyes. A silver clasp fastened his cloak: a dragon’s head, worn almost smooth by years of handling. He studied me with an expression I could not read, then rested one hand briefly on my shoulder. “Welcome,” he said. “You have come a long way to learn the arts of knighthood.” His fingers tightened around the silver clasp. “I only hope we have time to teach them.” </nc-section>