Run: 2026-02-25-01KJBHS1K0QS48GAZC9C9ARAJK

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Crimson Greeting" data-color="red"> Frederick pulled on the reins as Thunder came to a sliding halt near the stone troughs. The horse snorted, sensing the tension that suddenly thickened the air. From the shadows of the stable door, a figure emerged, clad in armor that gleamed like fresh blood against the twilight. Sir Roland. He was a mountain of a man, his presence demanding that every blade within a hundred yards point straight. He did not smile. He placed a gauntleted hand on Frederick's shoulder, the weight of it crushing. "You ride too fast for your own good, squire," Roland rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "Here, we break horses, and we break men. Try not to be the first to break today." The warning hung heavy, painted in the deep crimson of the knight's cape that flared behind him. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Verdant Welcome" data-color="green"> As Frederick guided Thunder toward the shelter of the stable yard, the smell of wet earth and fresh hay filled his lungs. Sir Roland stepped out from behind a stack of wooden crates, wiping his hands on a rough cloth. Unlike the iron of the gates, the knight wore a tunic of forest green, and his smile was open and welcoming. He looked at Frederick not with the gaze of a taskmaster, but of a father watching a sapling reach for the sun. "Thunder is a spirited one," Roland said softly, patting the horse's neck. "But he knows a good hand when he feels one." He extended a hand to Frederick, rough but gentle. "We welcome you here, lad. The training is hard, but the soil is rich, and you will grow well in it." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Azure Command" data-color="blue"> The sun dipped below the western wall, casting long, cold shadows across the cobbled yard. Frederick halted his horse, the steel of his spurs chiming softly. Before he could dismount fully, a silhouette detached itself from the archway of the barracks. It was Sir Roland, his armor polished to a mirror-like blue sheen that reflected the dying light. The knight stood with his arms crossed, his posture rigid and perfect, embodying the discipline of the castle itself. "Frederick of the Lowlands," Roland stated, his voice echoing with a clarity that cut through the evening air. "You have passed the gates. Now, you must learn to carry the weight of them. Follow me to the barracks. Time is not a friend to the lazy." The command was final, etched in the cold blue of the fading sky. </nc-section>