Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFEHKTDWZ9THR2JX72TG7HV

<nc-section data-title="First Meeting: The Gruff Initiation" data-color="red"> Frederick swung down from Thunder’s lathered back, his boots sinking into the mud-choked stable yard, and barely had time to loop the stallion’s reins around a splintered hitching post before a shadow fell over him. Sir Roland, the castle’s most feared battle knight, leaned against an oak stable post, a crisscrossed scar slashing across his left jaw, his chainmail clinking as he pushed off to size the young squire up. “You’re three bells late, boy,” he rumbled, kicking a loose rusted horseshoe across the mud so it skidded to a stop at Frederick’s feet. “Think you can waltz in here after the rest of the squires, and earn the right to wear this castle’s livery? First test: groom that stallion, mend his frayed girth, and have him ready for border patrol at dawn. If you slack, you’ll be sent back to your mother’s farm before the moon sets. No coddling here—not with the dragon’s fires starting to burn along the northern marches.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="First Meeting: The Kindred Welcome" data-color="green"> Frederick swung down from Thunder’s sweat-dusted back, his boots sinking into clover-strewn soft earth of the stable yard, and paused to brush a burr from the stallion’s mane before a warm laugh pulled his head up. Sir Roland, the local knight renowned for his care of the castle’s herd of rescue horses, stepped out from between two sunlit stable bays, a wobbly orphaned foal trotting at his heels, his face crinkling into a smile before he even crossed the yard to meet Frederick. “I’d know that line of chestnut stallions anywhere—your father rode the same bloodline when we fought side by side along the western borders,” he said, clapping Frederick gently on the shoulder before helping him loosen Thunder’s stiff saddle. “Come, I’ve saved you the driest stall in the west wing, with fresh hay and a bucket of apples for your boy. We’ve been waiting for you. Training starts slow at first, but there’s good work ahead of us here, work that’ll protect every farm and family for miles around.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="First Meeting: The Coded Greeting" data-color="blue"> Frederick swung down from Thunder’s shadowed back, his boots barely making a sound on the dewy stone of the stable yard, and fumbled for the official squire assignment parchment in his pocket before a low, clear voice cut through the gathering dusk. Sir Roland, his plate armor etched with faint silver runes that glowed like starlight in the fading light, stepped from the mouth of the locked, unused north stable, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword wreathed in faint wisping blue mist. “The last flame waits for the heir of the line,” he said, the ancient dragon-tongue passphrase rolling off his tongue, and he stepped closer to confirm Frederick knew the required reply—“the blood of the first binds what is broken”—before yanking him out of earshot of two passing stable hands. “You’re not here for ordinary knight’s training, boy. The last dragon is hidden beneath this castle, and your bloodline is the only one that can wake her. We’ve been waiting for you for a century.” </nc-section>