Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8ESPK7GAKBT4JREYQ8T28

<nc-section data-title="The Bloodied Gauntlet Greeting" data-color="red"> Frederick was mid-tug with Thunder’s saddle girth beside the hay-strewn stables when a sharp clatter of metal cut through the whinnies of stalled horses. Sir Roland loomed into view, his left gauntlet crusted with dried blood, a gash splitting the leather up to his elbow. “Squire,” he barked, not a greeting but a test, as he planted a boot on a hay bale and wrenched the gauntlet free. The metallic tang of blood pricked Frederick’s nose; behind Roland, a mare nickered and shied from the splotch of red on his tunic. “You think castle training’s about polishing armor and reciting oaths?” Roland leaned in, his eyes flinty. “I just dragged a poacher off the western pastures—this stables is where you’ll learn to patch wounds, calm spooked mounts, and not flinch when blood stains your own hands. Tether your stallion. Your first lesson starts now.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Foal’s Lesson Greeting" data-color="green"> The scent of fresh clover tangled with hay dust as Frederick knelt to feed Thunder a handful of grain by the stables’ side door. A soft voice lifted over the foal’s whimper: “You tend to horses with the same care you’ll need for a knight’s lance, squire.” Sir Roland stepped into view, his hands wrapped in a linen cloth around a skittish foal with a sprained foreleg. A twist of clover was woven into the foal’s mane, a small comfort Roland had tucked there earlier. He gestured for Frederick to join him, his greeting warm and unhurried. “This one strayed into the thorn thicket at dawn,” he said, guiding Frederick’s hand to the foal’s calm flank. “Squire’s work isn’t just hacking at dummies—it’s mending what’s broken. Help me wrap his leg, and I’ll teach you how clover’s sap eases a beast’s fear.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Dragon’s Stable Whisper" data-color="blue"> Mist coiled around the stables’ stone foundations as Frederick brushed Thunder’s mane, the creak of a weathered door making him start. Sir Roland stood there, his gaze fixed on a faded dragon emblem carved into the stable’s wooden post, before turning to greet him with a quiet nod. “You feel it, too?” he said, his voice soft as the distant hoot of an owl. “This stables once housed a dragon’s cub—back when the last of their kind walked the kingdom’s hills.” His greeting held no fanfare, only a quiet introspection as he tapped the carved emblem. “Your arrival isn’t a random posting, squire. That stallion of yours? His line is tied to those dragons. Stay close to the stables after dark. You might hear the cub’s old whinnies tangled in the wind.” </nc-section>