Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAEZT1QJWA1VZXFZKXN1G6

<nc-section data-title="Encounter at the Stables" data-color="red"> Sir Roland stood beneath the eaves of the stable, a broad silhouette against the last of the dying light. He was taller than I had expected, his armor dulled by travel and battle, a white cloak draped over one shoulder bearing the kingdom's crest. As I reined Thunder to a stop, he gave a low, easy laugh that put my nerves at rest. "Welcome to Castle Ardrin, squire," he called, voice warm and familiar despite being a stranger. He stepped forward and laid a gauntleted hand on Thunder's flank as if to assure the horse as much as me. "You've a good mount. Name yourself, lad." I dismounted, knees trembling more from excitement than fear. "Frederick, sir," I said, bowing as best I could. Sir Roland's eyes crinkled; he inclined his head and gestured toward the courtyard. "Then come inside. There's ale for the weary and a bed for those who mean to serve. But first—show me how you look after your gear. A knight can tell a lot by a squire's care." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="A Knight's Test" data-color="green"> He didn't smile when he approached; Sir Roland's face was a map of old fights and older sorrows. He was wiping a bit of mud from his greaves with a rag when he looked up and nodded once. "So this is Frederick," he said, measuring me with a glance that felt like it might peel the varnish from my skin. "Thunder's a fine beast," he added without warmth. "Keep him fed. Keep him shod. A squire who neglects his horse won't last a month on a campaign." Before I could answer, he handed me the rag and pointed to a saddle off to the side. "Polish that. Then fetch water from the well. And when you're done, find Master Harrow in the armory. He'll teach you to roll bandages without fumbling them like a child." There was no invitation in his tone—only orders. Yet even in the brusqueness, some thread of expectation tugged at me, and I found myself eager to prove I could meet it. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Mark of the Dragon" data-color="blue"> Sir Roland was waiting by the farrier's stall, shadow and steel etched into his posture. When he saw me, he did not reach for his helm or his sword; instead, he lifted a small leather pouch and let its clinking sound the way a bell might call a flock. "You ride Thunder," he said, the name spoken like a test. "Good. You'll need every loyal creature you can find." He stepped closer, and for a moment I only smelled oil and smoke. Then his hand moved and he drew from the pouch a thin, iridescent scale that caught the sunset and splintered it into blue and green. He did not offer it; he set it gently into my palm as if placing a seed. "Keep this," he said, voice suddenly softer. "Not everyone carries the old marks, and not every story is safe to tell. There are things stirring beyond these walls that will want men ready and quiet. If ever you hear the mountains sing, remember what this felt like. Remember who gave it to you." I closed my fingers around the scale, its edges cold and impossibly alive, and felt the air shift as if a new chapter had been laid across the castle's stones. </nc-section>