Run: 2026-02-25-01KJBHGTMQBXJ6254KY3YH1BWR

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Iron Hand" data-color="red"> Thunder’s hooves clattered against the cobbled courtyard as I dismounted, the adrenaline of the journey fading into the exhaustion of arrival. Before I could turn the reins toward the main barracks, a shadow detached itself from the stable wall. Sir Roland stood there, a mountain of scarred steel and worn leather, his hand resting on the pommel of a sword that had seen more battles than I had seen seasons. His eyes, hard as flint, scanned me from my dust-stained boots to my trembling grip on the reins. "The horse stays here until you earn a place to sleep," he grunted, his voice like grinding stones. He stepped closer, the weight of his armor pressing against me. "You're a squire now, boy. The training starts with the dirt under your fingernails, not the polish on your breastplate." <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Gentle Start" data-color="green"> The air inside the stable was thick with the comforting scent of hay and warm wool. Thunder nuzzled my shoulder as I untied the girth straps, but a quiet presence had already gathered near the stalls. Sir Roland emerged from the dim light, his plate armor polished to a mirror shine that reflected the lanterns hanging above. Unlike the harsh reputation the knights carried, his smile was warm, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He reached out, not to inspect me, but to scratch the stallion behind the ears. "Thunder is a fine beast," Roland said softly, looking down at me with a mentor’s patience. "He knows the road well, much like you. Tonight, you sleep in the loft. Tomorrow, we start with the oats. A squire must care for his horse before he seeks to care for the realm." <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: Shadows of Duty" data-color="blue"> As the sun dipped below the battlements, turning the sky a bruised purple, the castle gates groaned shut behind me. I walked Thunder toward the shadowed recesses of the stables, seeking the silence that the open fields had left. Sir Roland was waiting there, standing as still as a statue, his presence radiating a cold, solemn authority. The lantern light caught the silver embroidery of the royal crest on his cloak. "Your journey ends, Frederick," he stated, his voice echoing softly off the stone arches. He did not offer a hand; instead, he gestured to the empty stall beside him. "In these halls, the past is heavy, and the future is uncertain. I will watch you. The path you take from here will define the man you become."