Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9DVQE4JTVYMGZNJJF1XKV

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight’s Welcome (Red)" data-color="red"> The stables groaned under the weight of hooves and the clatter of harnesses as Frederick dismounted. Sir Roland stood near the door, his broadsword resting against the wall, its blade gleaming faintly in the dying light. His dark eyes locked onto Frederick’s nervous expression, and a slow smile curved his lips. "Well, well," he rumbled, stepping forward. "If it isn’t the new squire who’s already got the courage of a thousand knights." He extended a hand, and Frederick, startled, took it—only to find it warm, calloused, and firm. "Name’s Roland," the knight said, voice rough as gravel. "And you’re Frederick, I presume? The one who rode in like the wind itself." Frederick swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around Roland’s. "Yes, sir," he managed. "I—I mean, yes, Your Grace." Roland chuckled, the sound like distant thunder. "Call me Roland. And you’ll call me *sir* until you prove yourself otherwise." He gestured to the stables. "Show me what you’ve got, boy. Or I’ll have to teach you the hard way." </nc-section> --- <nc-section data-title="Chapter 3: The First Trial (Green)" data-color="green"> The scent of damp stone and old leather filled the stables as Frederick approached Sir Roland. The knight stood with his back to the door, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the flickering torchlight. Frederick hesitated, then cleared his throat. "Your Grace," he said, bowing slightly, "I’ve come to begin my training." Roland turned slowly, his expression unreadable. "Training?" he repeated, voice low. "You mean you’ve been sent here to learn how to wield a sword, a shield, perhaps even a horse?" Frederick nodded, his fingers twitching at his sides. "Yes, sir. To become a knight." Roland exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dark hair. "And what makes you think you’re ready?" The question hung between them, heavy with expectation. Frederick’s chest tightened. He had heard the stories—of knights who fell before their first battle, of those who rose to legend. He would not be one of the former. </nc-section> --- <nc-section data-title="Chapter 4: The Shadow of the Past (Blue)" data-color="blue"> The stables smelled of sweat and leather, the air thick with the weight of unspoken history. Frederick stepped forward, his boots crunching on the gravel path, and found Sir Roland leaning against the stable wall, his boots propped up, a half-smoked pipe between his fingers. The knight didn’t look up at first, but when he did, his eyes were sharp, assessing. "You’re late," Roland said, voice dry. "Again." Frederick swallowed. "I—I apologize, sir. The road was… difficult." Roland exhaled smoke, the pipe glowing faintly in the dim light. "Difficult?" he repeated, tilting his head. "You mean you got lost, or you were ambushed, or you just didn’t want to be here?" Frederick’s pulse quickened. He had no answer for that. Roland’s gaze darkened. "You’re not the first to come here with excuses," he muttered. "But you’re the first who’s still standing." Then, with a sudden movement, he stood fully, the pipe clattering to the ground. "Come. Show me what you’ve got." Frederick followed, his heart pounding, the weight of Roland’s silence pressing down on him like a storm cloud. </nc-section>