Run: 2026-03-03-01KJTZN2HVCAVP15P4TRN83YF4

<nc-section data-title="The Gruff Welcome" data-color="red"> I’d just looped Thunder’s reins to the weathered hitching post by the stable yard, brushing straw from my travel satchel, when a voice like crushed gravel rolled over my shoulders. “You the new squire, Frederick?” A man stepped out from between two stacks of saddle blankets—broad-shouldered, his jaw crisscrossed with a thin silver scar, mail coiled over one arm. He clamped a hand down on my shoulder hard enough to make my teeth rattle, nodding at the horse. “That’s a fine mount, but don’t let him outwalk you during drills. Now c’mon, I’ll show you your quarters before supper. The head cook’s got a stew that’ll stick to your ribs, and don’t you dare skip the evening drills tomorrow at dawn sharp.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Kindly Veteran" data-color="green"> I was kneeling by Thunder’s hooves, checking for stones, when a soft whistle drifted over the stable dust. Looking up, I found Sir Roland leaning against a wooden stall door, a tabby kitten curled in the crook of his armored forearm. He smiled, the lines around his eyes crinkling, and set the kitten down by a pile of clean hay before pushing off the door to approach. “Welcome to the castle, Frederick. I’m Sir Roland, your training mentor for the next two years.” He gestured to the half-empty bucket of oats by his feet. “Was just mending a scraped-up barn foal’s paw—figured I’d earn my keep around here even when I’m not on patrol. C’mon, I’ll walk you through the kit inspection rules first, before the other squires start arriving for supper.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Formal Steward" data-color="blue"> I’d just handed the reins of Thunder to a grinning stable boy, fumbling with the crumpled papers of my squire’s indenture, when a sharp, clean voice cut through the chatter of stable hands. “Frederick of the Western Marches?” A man in a perfectly pressed surcoat emblazoned with the kingdom’s lion crest stepped forward, his leather-bound ledger tucked under one arm. He bowed from the waist in the formal knightly manner, his hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword. “I am Sir Roland, head of the castle’s squire training program. I have your enrollment papers here—we’ll begin with a gear inventory and a tour of the training yards immediately, before the evening meal. Please follow me.” </nc-section>