Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFFB1J6ATNE4K15S3YS04HA

<nc-section data-title="The Crimson Master" data-color="red"> Frederick dismounted his steed, his boots hitting the cobblestones with a resounding clatter. Before him, waiting by the heavy oak doors of the stable, stood Sir Roland. His armor was polished to a brilliance that seemed to drink the sunset, glowing with hues of deep crimson and crimson. The knight did not speak immediately, but he closed his wizened grip on Frederick’s armored collar, the rough leather of his gauntlets curling around Frederick’s neck. "The tack holds," Roland grunted, his voice like stones grinding together. He gestured toward the horse's leather straps with a thick finger. "One flaw, squire, is life's beginning. One is the horse's will. Do not fight the beast, Frederick. Break the beast in the shadows. That is the path I have cut." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Scent of Oats" data-color="green"> The shadow of the stable collapsed over them as Frederick tied Thunder to the post, and it was then that green cloaks emerged from the mist near the hay stacks. Sir Roland stepped forward, unhurried, smelling of fresh cut grass and manure. He wore the color of new leaves, symbolic of growth within the keep, not the war colors of the Red Guard. "You ride well for a boy who has never held a plow," Roland said, a wide, reassuring smile lighting the dim lantern air. He reached out and patted the nose of Thunder, then settled a fond look upon Frederick. "No blood in this house tonight. Only stewardship. Decide on your lessons by dawn, or the weeds will eat the lessons for you." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Twilight Oath" data-color="blue"> The final moment of twilight before the perpetual brown clouds set in was the time the stables changed their color. From the darkness behind the troughs came a ghostly import, a knight bathed in the spectral blue of moonlight. Sir Roland stood like a guardian statue, his sword unlit, its metal reflecting the only color of the day—its own cold, distant history. "Thannister," Freudrick said clumsily. "Lord..." Roland's hand drifted to the hilt of a blade that hummed with the memory of the last dragon. "Frederick," corrected Roland, stepping into the shadows. "You arrived when the bloodline sleeps. Tonight is not for taming horses. Tonight is for learning how to listen to the silence between them." </nc-section>