Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7NBGVMX1HENZ80ETBYG2H

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Stable's Sharp Reprimand" data-color="red"> Frederick had barely looped Thunder’s reins around the stable’s oak post when a clatter of dented steel cut through the straw-scented air. Sir Roland—his face crisscrossed with a scar that split his left eyebrow, his plate armor smudged with the rust of a recent skirmish—stepped from the shadow of a hay bale, his glare as sharp as the dagger at his belt. “Squire,” he snapped, grabbing Frederick’s wrist to yank him toward Thunder’s unbrushed flank, “you think a castle’s stables tolerate lazy hands? You dawdled across the field like a farm boy chasing butterflies, and now your stallion’s coat is caked with dust that’ll chafe his hide by dawn. Toss that straw broom aside, grab the currycomb, and don’t stop until every strand of Thunder’s mane shines—else I’ll have you mucking out the boar pens until the next full moon.” The stables’ iron trough clinked as Roland slammed his fist against it, a warning that Frederick’s training would be no gentle introduction to knighthood. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Stable's Green Counsel" data-color="green"> As Frederick knelt to loosen Thunder’s saddle girth, a soft whinny drew his eye to a chestnut mare with green-woven reins nuzzling a sprig of clover from Sir Roland’s palm. The knight—his armor polished but streaked with the grass stains of a morning ride—stepped forward with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “You’ve got a fine stallion there,” he said, nodding at Thunder, who’d relaxed at the sound of his voice. Roland ran a calloused hand over Thunder’s neck, his touch gentle as he added, “I see you didn’t rush to tie him up tight—wise. Horses remember the hands that treat them kindly, same as squires remember the knights who teach them to grow. Here,” he plucked the clover sprig from the mare’s mane and held it out, “tuck this in Thunder’s brow. It’s a old trick to bond with a mount—one that’ll serve you better than any sword lesson this week.” The stables hummed with the chirp of woodpeckers from the nearby oak grove, a quiet promise of growth in the days ahead. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Stable's Blue Whisper" data-color="blue"> Frederick had paused to stare at the blue twilight bleeding over the castle’s western walls when a low voice cut through the stable’s hush. Sir Roland leaned against a weathered post, his silver armor gilded with the blue hue of the fading sun, a tattered blue scroll clutched in his gauntleted hand. “You’ve come farther than most squires to reach this castle,” he said, not turning to face Frederick but keeping his gaze fixed on the distant blue hills where the last dragon was rumored to hide. When Frederick hesitated, Roland finally looked over, his eyes deep as a winter lake. “I saw you speak to Thunder as you rode—few squires bother to talk to their mounts. That’s why I’m greeting you here, not in the great hall. This scroll,” he tapped the blue parchment, “holds a secret about the castle’s dragon lore… but first, tell me: did you feel the faint tremor in the earth as you crossed the field? The one that hums like a dragon’s lullaby?” The stables’ horses whinnied softly, as if responding to a name only Roland knew. </nc-section>