Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9PGSGM4H2X84BKFKFN8WD

<nc-section data-title="Stables and Steel" data-color="red"> The castle yard funneled me toward the stables, where the scent of hay and leather wrapped around Thunder’s steaming flanks. Grooms hurried to and fro with currycombs and buckets, but one figure stood at ease by the half-door, arms folded like a gate of iron. “Frederick,” he said before I’d even swung down, voice steady as a drum. “You ride straight, and your horse trusts your hands. Good.” I landed, boots scuffing dust. The knight stepped forward, and the torchlight stitched his mail in amber thread. He was broad-shouldered and weathered, with a neatly kept beard and a scar that curved like a crescent just beneath one eye. It did not make him cruel; it made him real. “I am Sir Roland, sworn to this keep,” he said, offering a forearm. I took it, and his grip tested me without crushing. “Local enough to know every loose stone, and long on patience when it’s earned.” He palmed Thunder’s muzzle. My stallion, traitor to pride, sighed and pushed his nose into the knight’s hand. Sir Roland smiled. “First lesson, squire: a knight sees to his mount before his glory,” he said, then tapped the stable post. A faint char marred the wood, old and round as a thumbprint, as if a coal had kissed it. “Second: you’ll keep your eyes open. This land’s been quiet too long to stay that way.” He stepped back, nodding toward an empty stall. “Stable him. Then we’ll talk about dawn—and what it asks of you.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="A Hand on the Reins" data-color="green"> The stable eaves dripped the last light of evening in gold, and swallows cut quick black seams through it. I drew Thunder to a halt; he tossed his head, mane damp with the run. A laugh, warm and rough, came from the shadows. “Easy there, Thunder. A name like that’s either earned or an invitation to trouble.” A knight peeled out of the dusk, helm tucked under his arm, hair threaded with iron. His tabard bore the keep’s stag, faded from too many washings, and his eyes were the color of wet bark: kind when they chose to be, unblinking when they didn’t. “I’m Sir Roland,” he said, and flicked an apple from his palm to mine in a single, practiced motion. “Local knight, local gossip, local headache. You must be Frederick.” I caught the apple to cover my surprise. “Yes, sir.” “Good. Feed your horse. Then we’ll see if your hands hold a sword as steady as they hold a rein.” I bit the apple in half and offered the rest to Thunder, who took it with a crunch that felt like good luck. Sir Roland watched, approving. “Your sponsor’s letter spoke well of you,” he went on, glancing over the bustle of the yard. “But ink’s a cheap witness. Steel, sweat, and the patience to muck a stall—those tell the truer tale. Stables first, stories after.” He clapped my shoulder once, solid as a vow, and pointed me toward an open berth. “Welcome to your beginning, lad. The rest we’ll earn together.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Ash at the Doorframe" data-color="blue"> By the time I reached the stables, night had breathed a cool hush over the yard. Lanterns swung low, honeying the air, and the horses murmured in their stalls, a tide of soft bodies and darker eyes. I slid from Thunder’s back, legs trembling with the ride and a little with the future. “Frederick of—?” a voice asked, mild and measuring. I turned. The knight was not tall for all his presence, but the stillness around him made space. Mail glimmered along his sleeves, and a dragon’s-head clasp fastened his cloak—a flourish, or a memory. He held his helm in the crook of his arm like a sleeping cat. “Scarford,” I said. “Sir.” “Sir Roland,” he returned, and his smile pleated the corners of his eyes. “I keep these stones and the souls who tread between them. You’ll be one.” He stepped to Thunder and let the horse sniff his knuckles. “Good temper,” he murmured. “He’ll save your skin if you let him.” Then, almost idly, he brushed the lintel with two fingers. Soot blackened them. “Struck lightning, they say,” he added, voice thoughtful. “Clear sky that day. Folks tell stories quickly when they’re afraid.” My skin prickled. Thunder blew against my shoulder as if to steady me. “Come,” Sir Roland said, gesturing to an empty stall. “We’ll settle him. Then you’ll wash, eat, and sleep like the dead. At dawn, I’ll show you the yard where boys turn to blades—and where rumor turns to truth.” He met my eyes, and something old and unspoken passed there, like a shadow flown across the moon. “Welcome, Frederick. You’ve come in a season that asks for courage.” </nc-section>