Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFE38MGQ1V0DZE53A21TXFB

<nc-section data-title="An Unexpected Friend" data-color="red"> As I guided Thunder towards the stables, a broad-shouldered knight with a kind, weathered face stepped out of the shadows. His armor was polished but bore the nicks of recent use. He smiled, a genuine, warm expression that put me at ease. "Young Frederick, I presume?" he called, his voice carrying the easy authority of a man accustomed to command. "I am Sir Roland, Master of the Stables and Arms. Dismount, lad. You've made good time from the eastern road. Let's get your horse some water and yourself a meal. The road is no place for a young squire to linger after sunset." He offered a steadying hand as I swung down from the saddle, and his friendly grip on my shoulder felt less like a test of strength and more like a welcome. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Protocol of Welcome" data-color="green"> The stable yard was a scene of organized activity. Grooms moved efficiently with buckets and brushes. As I brought Thunder to a halt near a mounting block, a knight in full, unadorned steel plate approached. His posture was perfect, his gaze assessing. "You are Frederick, squire to Baron Albrecht?" he asked, his tone polite but devoid of warmth. It was a statement, not a question. "I am, my lord," I replied, trying to mirror his formal stance. "I am Sir Roland. Present your horse to the head groom, there." He indicated a stern-looking man. "Then you will present yourself to the Seneschal in the main hall. Follow the cobbled path to the third archway on the left. Do not dawdle. The castle's schedule is precise." His greeting was a checklist of duties, a clear demarcation of the rigid hierarchy I had now entered. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="A Chilling Reception" data-color="blue"> The stable yard was quiet, almost unnervingly so after the open road. The air was cool, and long shadows stretched from the walls. As I approached the stables, a figure detached itself from the deeper gloom of a doorway, moving with a silent, predatory grace. He didn't speak at first, just watched me with pale, hawk-like eyes that seemed to take in every detail—my dusty travel clothes, the worn leather of my reins, the weariness in my posture. "Frederick," he finally said. The name sounded like an accusation on his lips. "Sir Roland. They told me to expect a squire, but they did not mention you would look so... untested." He stepped closer, and the dying light glinted off the silver dragon insignia on his breastplate. "This is not your father's estate. Here, your name means little. Only your deeds will speak for you. Remember that." </nc-section>