Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPCSQXFNS893FCRYH1A1SS

<nc-section data-title="A Harsh Welcome" data-color="red"> Thunder’s hooves clattered to a halt as a towering figure stepped from the shadows of the stables, his armor still gleaming with the remnants of battle. Sir Roland, the kingdom’s most feared knight, crossed his arms over his broad chest, his scarred face unreadable. "Late," he grunted, his voice like gravel. "The King expects punctuality, boy. Or did they not teach you that in whatever backwater hole you crawled out of?" Frederick’s grip tightened on the reins, his stomach twisting. He had heard the stories—Sir Roland had no patience for weakness. Swallowing hard, he dismounted, his boots sinking slightly into the mud. "The roads were treacherous, sir. Bandits near Blackridge Pass." Roland’s cold eyes narrowed. "Excuses are for the weak." He stepped forward, his gauntleted hand shooting out to seize Frederick’s shoulder, fingers digging in like iron. "You’re here to learn, squire. And your first lesson is this: *Failure is not tolerated.*" He shoved Frederick toward the stables. "See to your horse. Then report to the training yard. You’ve got five minutes." </nc-section> --- <nc-section data-title="A Measure of Respect" data-color="green"> As Frederick reined in Thunder near the stables, a man with silver-streaked hair and a well-worn but polished suit of armor emerged, wiping his hands on a cloth. Sir Roland’s reputation preceded him—not as a brute, but as a knight who had earned his stripes through wisdom as much as strength. He offered Frederick a nod, his sharp eyes appraising but not unkind. "Frederick, isn’t it?" Roland’s voice was steady, warm even, though his gaze missed nothing—the way Frederick sat in the saddle, the wear on his boots, the cautious hope in his eyes. "You’ve got your father’s posture. Did he teach you to ride like that?" Frederick straightened, surprised. "Yes, sir. He always said a knight must be one with his mount." Roland chuckled, tossing the cloth over his shoulder. "Smart man. But riding is only the beginning." He gestured toward the castle. "Come. The stables can wait. I want to hear about the journey here—and what you think you’re ready to learn." Frederick dismounted, heart pounding with a mix of relief and anticipation. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be as daunting as he’d feared. </nc-section> --- <nc-section data-title="A Test of Mettle" data-color="blue"> Frederick had barely swung down from Thunder when a blur of motion caught his eye. Before he could react, a gauntleted hand seized the reins, yanking them from his grasp. Sir Roland stood there, his armor adorned with the marks of countless battles, his expression unreadable. "Prove yourself," he said abruptly, tossing a practice sword at Frederick’s feet. It clattered against the cobblestones. Frederick blinked. "Sir?" Roland didn’t wait for an answer. He drew his own blade—a dull-edged training sword—and assumed a stance. "You want to be a knight? Then show me you’ve got the spine for it. Now. *Fight.*" The stable hands paused in their work, watching. Frederick’s pulse roared in his ears, but he snatched up the sword, his muscles tensing. He’d trained for this, but never against a legend. Roland lunged. Frederick barely parried, stumbling back. The knight’s strike was controlled but relentless, driving him toward the stable wall. "Again!" Roland barked as Frederick’s back hit the wood. "A knight doesn’t cower!" Gritting his teeth, Frederick pushed off the wall and swung. The clash of wood echoed through the courtyard—and for the first time, Sir Roland smiled. </nc-section>