Run: 2026-11-11-01M753ANGK4X1VS5PBWVTSZGE4

<nc-section data-title="Version 1: Sir Roland at the Stables" data-color="red"> Thunder skidded to a halt in the mud of the stable yard, his chest heaving, and before I had even swung a leg over the saddle a gauntleted hand clamped around my bridle and yanked hard enough to throw me forward. "Easy, boy. Both of you," said a voice like a grinding millstone. Sir Roland was not what I had pictured. He was broad as a gatehouse, his beard red and singed at the ends, his surcoat over dented mail the colour of rust. Up close I could see the old burn scars up his forearms, and his eyes, pale and furious, fixed on mine as if I had personally offended him. "You ride like you think the road ends at the gate," he said, letting go of Thunder's reins only to seize my wrist. "A squire who cannot halt his horse cannot be trusted with a lance, a shield, or another man's life. Dismount. Now." My knees shook as I dropped into the mud. "I — I am Frederick. I was sent—" "I know who you are. Lord Harrow sent word." Roland thrust a pitchfork into my chest, its handle rough against my palms. "Stable boys they can train in a week. Knights they send me when they want to see if a boy breaks. Unsaddle him. Curry him. Feed him. And do not dare touch your own supper until your hands stop trembling." Thunder nuzzled my shoulder, snorting. Roland's grip tightened on the stallion's lead, and for a moment I thought he meant to strike me, but instead he only leaned in close, smelling of iron and smoke. "Welcome to the castle, Frederick. Try to survive your first lesson."</nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: Sir Roland at the Stables" data-color="green"> Thunder slowed to a gentle trot the moment we passed the inner gate, as if he knew the way, and I followed the sound of singing — low, off-key, and entirely cheerful — toward the stables. Sir Roland was kneeling in the straw beside a chestnut mare, humming and scratching her ears, his mail shirt pushed up to his elbows and his helmet resting upside-down on a bucket. When he saw me, he rose with a groan, wiped his hands on his breeches, and grinned so wide I could count his missing tooth. "Well now. Young Frederick, is it? Lord Harrow's lad?" He clapped me so hard on the back I nearly fell into the hay. "Thunder's a fine name for a fine beast. Come here, lad — let me look at you." He walked around me like he was inspecting a horse, not unkindly, and then he squeezed my shoulder. "Nervous? Of course you are. Every boy who comes to train with me is nervous on the first day. I was sick behind those very stables on mine. My master — Sir Aldric, rest him — pretended not to notice and just let me be." He took Thunder's reins from me with surprising gentleness, murmuring to the stallion as he led him to a clean stall already filled with fresh straw. "You did well to ride here yourself. Shows you trust your horse, and he trusts you. That's half of knighthood already, the other half is learning to be on time for supper." He winked, and pressed a warm apple into my hand. "Wash up at the trough, then I'll show you where you'll sleep. And Frederick?" "Yes, Sir Roland?" "Don't mind the other squires if they tease you. In a green spring, even the smallest sprout can grow tall if the ground is good."</nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: Sir Roland at the Stables" data-color="blue"> By the time Thunder and I reached the stables, the light had gone blue with dusk and the yard was empty except for the soft stamp of horses and the hiss of lanterns. I tied Thunder loosely and stood there, feeling very small and very late, when a figure stepped out from the shadow of the tack room. Sir Roland did not wear his helm. His hair was grey and cropped short, his face scarred down the left side in a way that made his expressions hard to read. He looked at me for a long moment, not as a master might look at a squire, but as a man might look at a name he had expected never to hear again. "Frederick," he said quietly. I startled. "Sir? How did you—" "Lord Harrow told me you would come. He said you had his brother's eyes." Roland took Thunder's reins, but he did not guide the horse to a stall. He just stood with us in the cooling air, his hand resting lightly on the stallion's neck. "You have come far west for training. The castle folk will tell you it is to learn the sword. Do not believe everything they tell you." "What do you mean?" I asked, my apple of a heart thumping. Roland's gaze drifted past me, to the high towers where the last light caught the windows. "When the bells toll and the doors are barred, stay in your bunk. Whatever you hear beyond the walls, do not answer it. The last dragon did not die here, Frederick. It only learned to be quiet." He pressed a heavy iron key into my palm, cold as river stone. "Your stall is the third on the left. Put Thunder there. Then come find me in the hall, and I will tell you the rules. All of them."</nc-section>