Run: 2026-03-03-01KJTYAJHDP85N82NP0B94BWPR

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Stable Greeting" data-color="red"> The clink of Thunder’s iron hooves on cobblestones faded as I led my tired stallion toward the stable’s weathered oak doors, straw sticking to the damp soles of my boots. A low, rumbling chuckle pricked my ears from the shadow of the hayloft, and I spun to find Sir Roland: tall, broad-shouldered, his plate gauntlet dangling from one wrist, a thin silvery scar slicing across his left cheek. “First time hauling your own gear to the gates, huh?” he asked, stepping forward to clap a calloused, heavy hand on my shoulder, his eyes crinkling with warm amusement as he nodded at Thunder’s flanks, still damp with sweat from the ride. I stumbled over an apology for being late, but he waved it off, jerking his chin toward a stack of polished saddle blankets by the tack room. “First task: brush this old boy down, then help the stable boys mend the split fence by the east paddock. Been meaning to get to that since last winter’s storm.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Stable Assessment" data-color="green"> I fumbled with Thunder’s lead rope, my saddle bags slipping off one shoulder as I tried to tether him to an empty hitching post by the stables. A clatter of a metal water bucket skittering across the cobblestones made me spin, and I barely caught it before it slammed into my boots. Standing over the spilled grain scattered across the straw was Sir Roland: his tabard crisply pressed, his sword belt buckled tight, his gaze sharp enough to slice through the dusk. “A squire’s first duty is to control both his mount and his cargo,” he said, his voice low and sharp, no trace of easy warmth. I flushed, reaching down to right the bucket, and he sighed, softening slightly as he nodded at the hay bale beside me. “Take a breath, new boy. I don’t eat squires for breakfast—yet. But you’ll learn fast: every tool, every beast, every detail matters here. Wipe up that grain before the rats swarm it, then report to the armory before sundown.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Stable Companions" data-color="blue"> I’d just guided Thunder’s wet, whinnying frame into the stable yard when a high, tiny meow made both of us turn. Sir Roland was knelt by a stack of empty feed sacks, a plump tabby cat curled in his gauntlet-free hand, purring so loud it hummed against his woolen tunic. He looked up, his face softening into a smile that erased the stern edge I’d seen from other castle knights, and tucked the cat into a pocket of his saddlebags before standing to greet me. “Welcome to the training yards, squire,” he said, nodding at Thunder, finally setting the tabby back on a pile of straw where it curled up contentedly. “This is Lila—she’s the stable’s unofficial watchcat, and she’ll hiss at you if you forget to leave a scrap of cheese for her during your shifts. I’m Sir Roland, but you can call me Roland for now; most of the stable boys do. First stop: let’s get you registered with the head stablehand, then we’ll sit for a cup of spiced cider while I walk you through your first week’s lessons.” </nc-section>