Run: 2026-02-25-01KJBE2D2Y3H8MCKXJX4XNH4B6

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Iron Greeting" data-color="red"> Frederick tethered Thunder to the wooden railing, his breath hitching as the evening air turned sharp. From the shadows of the stable wall, a figure emerged, clad in plate armor that gleamed like dried blood under the torchlight. Sir Roland stepped forward, the heavy tread of his boots echoing against the cobblestones. He stopped a few paces away, his gauntleted hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "Welcome to the keep, squire," Roland's voice was gravel in a bucket, cutting through the night. "I am Sir Roland. You have the eyes of a boy, but the horse of a master's beast. Let us see if your hands possess your father's reputation." Frederick could feel the heat of the knight in his armor, not with comfort, but with the intensity of a forge fire. This was the first test: endurance. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: Roots of Steel" data-color="green"> The stables smelled of hay and old sweat, a scent that instantly grounded Frederick. As he rubbed Thunder's neck, a man leaned against a post, his cloak a faded verdigris that blended with the moss on the roof beams. This was Sir Roland. Unlike the legends of the war, he looked weathered by the earth rather than stained by the battlefield. He tipped his helmet, revealing a face lined with the kindness of a thousand sunrises. "You've brought a good steed across the plains," Roland said softly, his eyes crinkling. "The stone walls of this castle are cold, but the ground they stand on remembers the old ways. I expect you to treat Thunder as you expect to be treated, young Frederick." There was no threat in his voice, only a promise of a shared burden. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Silent Watch" data-color="blue"> Night had claimed the courtyard, bathing the stone arches in a cold, spectral blue. Frederick unclenched his hands, his knuckles white around Thunder's reins, when a shadow detached itself from the rafters. Sir Roland descended without a sound, his armor polished to a chilling mirror finish. He stopped just outside the dim glow of the lanterns, his presence making the air feel thin and heavy. "Frederick," the knight said, his tone devoid of warmth or cruelty, absolute and clear. "Sir Roland is my name. Do not look at my blade unless you are prepared to wield your own." He extended a gloved hand, not for a shake, but to take the reins of the stallion. "Your training begins when the moon is highest. Until then, rest." It was an order, not a suggestion, echoing with the cold weight of ancient laws. </nc-section>