Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKACW4V3839TC3TC66DT4JP

<nc-section data-title="A Welcome at the Stables" data-color="red"> By the time I reined Thunder in beneath the eaves of the stables, the lanterns were coming alive—small suns caught in glass, throwing warm haloes across dust and straw. The air was sweet with hay, sour with leather, and alive with the easy snorts of well-kept horses. A man stepped from the shadow of a stall, helm tucked beneath one arm, the other hand braced on his hip. His surcoat bore a worn hawk in flight, thread faded at the edges, as if it had seen more summers than any banner had a right to. “You must be Frederick,” he said, voice carrying the kind of calm that made other men straighten. “Sir Roland, local knight of these parts—and inconveniently fond of stables.” I swung down. “My lord.” He smiled, the kind that made the lines at the corners of his eyes look well-earned. “My lord is for courts. Roland will do for straw and honest work. Fine animal.” He ran a practiced palm along Thunder’s neck, and Thunder bent into the touch as if he’d known the man his whole life. “You ride with a light hand.” “A habit from bad roads,” I confessed. “Good. Keep it.” He tossed a rag to me. “First lesson: we honor the horse before we dream of the sword. Rub him down, kindly and thorough. At dawn, the yard. Blunted steel, sharper tongues. You’ll need both your hands and your wits.” He stepped aside, letting me into the circle of lantern light. “Welcome to the castle, Frederick. Let’s begin.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Hard Edges at the Stables" data-color="green"> The stable doors yawned wide, and Thunder’s breath rolled out in silver puffs that caught the last of the day. A man in half-plate waited by a water trough, arms folded, the lamplight worrying at the dents in his pauldrons. He had a soldier’s stillness, the kind that makes a place quieter just by standing in it. “Frederick.” Not a question. His eyes flicked to my saddle, my straps, Thunder’s hooves, then back to me. “Sir Roland. You’ll call me Roland unless I earn the other.” “Yes, si—Roland.” He stepped in, checked the cinch, loosened it a notch. “You ride hard to arrive soft. Good. Your leather will thank you.” He didn’t smile. “Training begins now.” “Now?” He pressed a brush and a shovel into my hands in turn. “You start with what will keep you alive. Your mount. Your feet. Your lungs. Anyone can swing steel. Few can last the hour after.” He crouched, ran his fingers along Thunder’s leg, showed me the swell of tendon, the places to mind. “And fewer still care for the creature that carried them here.” I worked while he watched, the rhythm of bristles and the scrape of muck cruel to my pride and oddly kind to my nerves. When Thunder gleamed and the stall lay fresh, Roland finally drew a wooden blade from a rack and tossed it to me without warning. I fumbled, caught it by the hilt. “Better,” he allowed. “Dawn. Yard. Wear what you don’t mind bleeding on. And bring that shovel’s stubbornness with you.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Whispers in the Straw" data-color="blue"> Dusk had settled into the quiet between hoofbeats by the time I slid from Thunder’s back. The stables breathed—a low, contented sound of animals at rest—and the wind threaded the eaves like a flute. “That’s a good horse for a long road,” said a voice from the dim. A man stepped forward, the lantern catching a raven pin at his collar, black on black, so it only gleamed when you weren’t looking straight at it. “Sir Roland. Welcome to the part of the castle that tells the truth.” I bowed a little, unsure how deep to go among straw and shadows. “Frederick.” He nodded at Thunder, then at me. “You kept him steady in a crosswind. I watched you on the hill. Most lads lean into fear. You leaned into sense.” He took Thunder’s bridle, thumb brushing the worn leather. “Horses don’t lie. They spook at ghosts and sleep through feasts. Yours isn’t spooking.” “At what?” I asked before I could help myself. Roland’s mouth tilted, not quite a smile. “At the old stories. This place is thick with them. Oaths hammered into beams, promises buried under flagstones. You feel it, don’t you? The way the air listens.” I did, and I didn’t know how to say so. “Good,” he murmured, releasing the bridle. “First lessons are simple: breathe, listen, set your feet. Come at dawn to the yard. Bring only what you can carry at a run.” He turned to go, then paused. “And Frederick? If anyone asks, tell them you met me by the stables. Some things begin best among honest animals.” </nc-section>