Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA9HCY4X8GG50S16RNA1PX

<nc-section data-title="The Knight’s Welcome" data-color="red"> The stables groaned under the weight of hooves and the clatter of harnesses, but Frederick’s heart pounded with anticipation. As he dismounted, the scent of leather and old wood filled the air. Then, a deep voice rumbled behind him, and a broad-shouldered figure stepped forward—Sir Roland, his armor gleaming under the fading light. His dark eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned, revealing a set of sharp teeth. "Well, well, if it isn’t the new squire," he said, extending a calloused hand. "Thunder’s a fine mount, but I’d wager your steed could outrun mine if we had a race." Frederick’s fingers trembled slightly as he clasped Roland’s hand, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you, sir. I—I didn’t expect anyone to greet me like this." Roland chuckled, patting the horse’s neck. "You’ll learn soon enough that kindness isn’t always in the armor. Now, come inside—your training begins now." </nc-section> --- <nc-section data-title="Shadows of the Past" data-color="green"> The stables were thick with the scent of damp stone and old leather, the kind of place where stories lingered like dust. Frederick dismounted, his breath catching as Sir Roland’s shadow loomed over him—not just in the way of a knight’s presence, but as if the man carried the weight of forgotten battles. Roland’s voice was low, measured, as he said, "You’ve come at a time when the old ways are fading." Frederick swallowed hard, his mind racing. "Sir, I—I only came to learn." Roland’s gaze darkened, sharp as a blade’s edge. "Learning is good, but sometimes, the past isn’t meant to be forgotten." A distant clatter of hooves echoed from the courtyard, and Roland’s expression softened. "Come. The training hall awaits. But know this: the last dragon’s fire still burns in the hearts of those who remember." Frederick’s pulse quickened. *What did that mean?* </nc-section> --- <nc-section data-title="A Knight’s Judgment" data-color="blue"> The stables were quiet except for the creak of hinges and the occasional rustle of a saddle. Frederick stood there, his hands clenched around the reins of Thunder, when a voice cut through the silence like a blade unsheathed. "You’re late." The words were spoken not by a knight, but by a figure clad in tattered robes, his face half-hidden beneath a hood. His voice was rough, like gravel underfoot. Frederick turned slowly, his breath catching. Before him stood an old man, his eyes sharp as flint, his presence as unyielding as the stone walls of the castle. "I’m not late," Frederick said, his voice trembling. "I—I just arrived." The old man’s gaze flicked to the knight standing nearby, then back to Frederick. "Sir Roland," he said, his tone dry, "this is the boy who will either rise or fall with the kingdom’s fate." Roland’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. The old man turned to Frederick, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The last dragon’s blood runs in your veins. That’s why you’re here. And that’s why you’ll learn." Frederick’s heart pounded. *What did he mean?* </nc-section>