Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFJKEV9VES07B4PCKX62WJQ

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Test at the Stables" data-color="red"> Frederick loops Thunder’s reins tight around the stable’s splintered oak hitching post, brushing road dust off his threadbare squire’s tunic, when a broad shadow falls over him. He spins to find Sir Roland, the castle’s most feared battle commander, his left cheek crisscrossed with a raw dragon-scorch scar, his gauntlets still crusted in boar’s blood from a morning hunt, one hand resting heavy on the hilt of his notched broadsword. Before Frederick can stammer out a formal greeting, Sir Roland barks a sharp question, demanding Frederick explain how he’d treat a warhorse’s cracked hoof mid-campaign—testing the new squire’s worth before he’s even allowed to cross the stable’s threshold, his gruff demeanor hiding the weight of a coming threat that only the castle’s highest knights know about. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Homecoming Welcome" data-color="green"> Frederick fumbles with Thunder’s knotted reins, his cheeks flaming with nervousness as he worries he’ll make a fool of himself in front of the legendary Sir Roland, when a warm, rumbling laugh tugs him out of his spiral. The knight leans in the stable doorway, a half-full tankard of spiced apple cider in one hand, a chonky calico stray curled on his pauldron, his dented steel armor polished to a soft, sun-warmed glow. He waves off Frederick’s hasty, clumsy bow, clapping the young squire on the back hard enough to make him stagger, already listing off all the castle’s best secrets: the sweet hay reserve near the west mangers that Thunder will love, the kitchen maid who slips extra honey cakes to new squires, and the hidden rampart perch where they can stargaze after curfew, the stern steward too afraid of the stable geese to ever patrol that far. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Greeting of Secrets" data-color="blue"> Frederick is still brushing pine needles from Thunder’s mane when Sir Roland steps out of the stable’s pitch-dark interior, his boots silent on the straw-strewn ground, his face unreadable in the fading twilight. He waits to speak until Frederick turns, surprised by the knight’s quiet approach, and offers only a grave, small nod that bears none of the cheerful welcome Frederick’s mother had promised when he secured the squire position. Before Frederick can introduce himself, Sir Roland asks if he’s ever seen a real dragon—not the scaly, fire-breathing monsters of children’s tales, but a living, gentle thing. When Frederick shakes his head, the knight pulls an iridescent, still-warm blue dragon scale from his tunic pocket, explaining that Frederick wasn’t brought to the castle to train as a random knight’s squire: his long-lost bloodline is the only one that can communicate with the last living dragon, trapped beneath the castle’s catacombs for 70 years. </nc-section>