Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKACM2H8SKJDSY39DM20WQX

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Hand at the Reins" data-color="red"> The scent of hay and warm leather met me as I reined Thunder in before the lamplit stables. Stable lads glanced up, but it was the man in worn plate and a weathered crimson cloak who drew my eye. He stood with the easy stillness of a tree that had outlasted storms, a white scar tracing his cheek like a map line. "Hold there," he called, stepping from shadow to torchglow. "You ride him like he’s stolen," he added with a crooked smile, his hand closing around Thunder’s bridle before the stallion could toss his head. "Sir Roland of Elden Vale." "Frederick," I said, breathless and flushed, trying not to stare at the notches along his pauldron, each a story I didn’t know. "I know," he said, eyes quick and kind. "Word rides faster than horses. Come—walk him out before he sleeps on his sweat. A fine animal is a better teacher than most men." He passed me a brush and set his shoulder to Thunder’s flank as if helping a friend. Behind the stables, the dusk hummed with crickets. "You’ll start before dawn," Sir Roland said, almost casually. "Steel first, saddles next, then letters—if you’ve any daylight left. And if your courage keeps, boy, we’ll speak of dragons when the ravens wheel low." He clapped my back, firm as an oath. "Welcome to Caer Elden, squire. Let’s see what your hands can learn." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Ivy and Iron" data-color="green"> I led Thunder beneath a trellis of ivy that clung to the old stone like a memory that wouldn’t let go. Lanterns swung in the green dusk, breathing light across harness buckles and the sleek flanks of resting geldings. A kestrel watched from a beam, narrow-eyed and still as a carved thing. "Easy there," a voice said, low and certain. A knight stepped from the stable’s mouth, moss-dark cloak brushed with straw, dragon sigil dulled by age. He had the sort of gaze that weighed and measured and then, perhaps, forgave. "Sir Roland," he said, inclining his head as though greeting me and Thunder both. "You must be Frederick." "Yes, my lord," I managed, and he smiled at the title as if it were an old boot that pinched his heel. "Roland will do. Names should fit," he said, taking Thunder’s rein so gently my stallion forgot to argue. The wind turned, bringing a cool breath that tasted like distant rain and something older, like iron struck on winter stone. The horses shifted, ears pricking. "You feel it?" he asked, not unkind. "This yard was raised on the oldest foundation in the keep. Some say the stones remember heat that didn’t come from any forge." His fingers brushed the scar at his jaw, absent-minded as a prayer. "You’ll learn the parts of a saddle before the parts of a sword. Both will save your life." He tipped his chin to the pump. "Walk him, water to the knees, never the muzzle. Then rub him dry. After that, we’ll find you a cot and a promise or two." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: Discipline at Dusk" data-color="blue"> Dusk had cooled the yard to slate and shadow. The blue banners along the stable eaves stirred as if speaking to one another, and the first stars stitched themselves above the keep’s black edge. I slid from Thunder’s back with tired legs and stiff pride. "Ho there," came a voice like steel drawn slow. A knight in a sea-blue surcoat stepped forward, mail whispering. He moved with the plain economy of someone who had no need to prove he could move at all. "Sir Roland," he said, offering not a bow but a steady palm to Thunder’s nose. "And you must be Frederick." "I am," I said, finding my heel and trying to remember to stand straight. "Good. Then you can start. Unsaddle him," he said, nodding to Thunder, "and show me you know the order. Girths, breastplate, bit—careful with the tongue. Walk him ten minutes, water only to the knees, rub till he steams no more. Lesson one: a tired horse forgives a clumsy rider. A sore one does not." I obeyed, fingers clumsy at first, then steadier under his watch. He did not hover, but he missed nothing. When I fumbled the buckle, he was there, silent as a thought, correcting without words. After, when Thunder’s hide shone and my arms trembled, Sir Roland gave a single nod. "Training bell at first light," he said. "You’ll eat after the yard is clean. You’ll sleep when your work is done. The rest—" He glanced past me to the dark line of hills. "The rest we’ll earn together." </nc-section>