Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFEE5B4KERKNQH5QW645095

<nc-section data-title="The Greeting" data-color="red"> The stables were a world of warm shadow and sweet-smelling hay as I dismounted, Thunder snorting contentedly. A figure detached itself from a stall door, the last rays of sun glinting off a polished steel greave. “You made good time from the border,” a voice stated, gravelly with disuse. Sir Roland stepped forward, not in the ceremonial plate of court, but in well-worn leather. His face was a map of old battles, his eyes sharp and appraising. “The stable master says you pushed your horse hard. A squire’s first duty is to the animal, not the appointment.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Greeting" data-color="green"> The clatter of my arrival drew a groom from the tack room, but it was another man who emerged from the adjacent armorer’s shop, wiping grease from his hands onto a rag. He watched me settle Thunder, a quiet assessment in his posture. “Frederick of the Western Marches,” he said, not a question. His voice was calm, weary. “I am Sir Roland. I will be your mentor here. That means I am your critic, your commander, and on bad days, your only friend. Let’s see what you’ve brought to my stable.” He gestured to my kit, his gaze missing nothing. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Greeting" data-color="blue"> A deep baritone laugh echoed off the stable beams. “By the bones of the first King! You look like you’ve ridden through a dragon’s sneeze!” Sir Roland emerged, a barrel-chested man with a beard like tangled thornbushes, his chainmail coif pushed back. He clapped a hand on my shoulder, nearly staggering me. “Sir Roland, at your service. And don’t mind the talk of dragons—just an old soldier’s gossip. The real beast here is the schedule.” He pointed a calloused thumb over his shoulder. “The stew’s cold, the training master is already in his cups, and your bunk is the one with the least straw. Welcome, lad.” </nc-section>