Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFE67Y27S8QG8HCCHQXG026

<nc-section data-title="The Stern Sentinel" data-color="red"> The stable yard was a flurry of activity, smelling sharply of hay and horse sweat. As Frederick dismounted, a figure detached itself from the shadows of the archway. The man was broad and weathered, his face a roadmap of old battles under iron-grey hair. His armor, though well-oiled, bore dents that spoke louder than any herald’s proclamation. This must be Sir Roland. “Squire,” the knight’s voice was like gravel stirred with a iron poker, lacking any warmth. He didn’t smile, his eyes instead scanning Frederick from head to toe, lingering on the fine weave of his travel cloak. “You are late. The sun has already bowed to the horizon. A knight’s day begins and ends with discipline. See to your beast yourself. A warrior who cannot care for his mount is no warrior at all.” He tossed a coarse brush that Frederick barely caught. “Report to the main hall when you’re done. Do not dawdle.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Welcoming Guide" data-color="green"> The scent of hay and the low nicker of horses was a comforting blanket after the long ride. A man was waiting by the water trough, his posture relaxed, leaning against the wooden fence. He wasn’t in full armor, just a padded jerkin over a chainmail shirt, and his smile was wide and genuine. “Frederick, I presume?” he called out, his voice carrying an easy authority. As Frederick approached, the man stepped forward, extending a calloused hand. “Sir Roland. Welcome to Ashenmere Castle. I saw your arrival from the parapet. That’s a fine piece of horseflesh you have there,” he said, nodding respectfully at Thunder. “He’s been well-ridden, but not over-ridden. That speaks well of you already. Come, I’ll show you where the water is freshest and where the best grooms keep the oats. We’ll get you both settled before the evening meal.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Shadowed Observer" data-color="blue"> The stables were a cavern of dancing shadows and pooled lamplight. Frederick was unbuckling Thunder’s saddle when a voice spoke from the deeper darkness at the far end of the stable aisle, making him jump. “The stallion has good lines. Strong. A relic of the old bloodlines from the North.” The man who stepped forward was leaner than Frederick expected, with sharp, watchful eyes that seemed to absorb every detail. His armor was unadorned, practical, and moved with a whisper-quiet grace. “You are Frederick. I am Roland.” He didn’t offer a hand, instead crossing his arms, his gaze pinning Frederick in place. “They say you have a dragon’s spark in your bloodline. A curious rumor. We shall see if it is fire… or merely smoke. Your real training begins not with the sword, but with the truth. Unpack your things. I will find you later.” </nc-section>