Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK96W9G7868JT1BYVJQ9Y4D

<nc-section data-title="Chapter: The Greeting (Red)" data-color="red"> Sir Roland stood beneath the shadow of the oaks by the stables, his helm tucked beneath one arm so the last light of day caught the angles of his face. He was taller than I had imagined, broad-shouldered in polished plate that still bore the faint scratch-marks of old campaigns. When he saw me, a smile—half-encouraging, half-appraising—broke across his lips. "Welcome to Castle Harrow," he said, voice like a bell softened by cloth. He held out a gauntleted hand, which I took without thinking. "You rode well to arrive before dark. A squire's first lesson is punctuality and care for his mount. Thunder looks strong—keep him that way, and you'll have my patience for the rest." There was an authority in him that made the air feel charged, as if the very stones listened. I promised I would, and in that promise felt the first weight of the training to come. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter: The Greeting (Green)" data-color="green"> By the stable doors Sir Roland leaned on a pitchfork, his cloak dusted with straw and his stern face softening the moment he saw my horse. He laughed in a way that filled the courtyard, not loud, but full of warmth. "Ah, Thunder," he said, stepping forward to ruffle the stallion's mane. "A fine beast and a finer choice for a new squire." Then he turned to me, eyes crinkling. "Frederick, is it? I am Roland. You'll find the castle can be cold to a stranger, but the stables are honest company. Come, I'll show you where you'll sleep and how to curry a horse without stripping the saddle to splinters." He guided me among the mangers as if we had been old companions, offering small pieces of advice and small jokes that eased the tightness in my chest. For the first time since arriving, I felt the knot of loneliness untangle. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter: The Greeting (Blue)" data-color="blue"> Sir Roland waited near the stables where shadows pooled thick against the stone. He did not bother with a flourish; his surcoat was plain, his visor up, and his gaze was a scrutiny that weighed me like a blade on a scale. When he spoke it was low and direct. "You've come at dusk—either brave or careless. Which are you, Frederick?" His question wasn't idle. He stepped close enough that Thunder snorted, sensing the tension. "The castle is a web of oaths and secrets. Training will teach you sword and saddle, but it will not teach you whom to trust. Keep your ears open and your tongue closed." There was a scar along his jaw that showed when he smiled—if it could be called a smile—and in it a warning. I swallowed, nodded, and found that the steadiness in his stare had already set a discipline inside me I had not known I needed. </nc-section>