Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFMNGAPTED9WHNQR781B93F

<nc-section data-title="The Knight's Welcome" data-color="red"> As Thunder's hooves clattered into the cobblestone courtyard, a figure emerged from the shadows of the great stable doors. He was not the towering, silver-clad hero from the bards' songs. Sir Roland was a man of middle years, his chainmail shirt dull and dented, a deep scar running from his temple to his jaw. He held a currycomb in one hand, and his eyes, sharp and assessing, took in Frederick from his dusty boots to the tremor in his hands. "You're late, boy," he said, his voice like gravel. "The sun's nearly gone. Stables are cleaned with the light, and your horse looks more winded than you do. That changes tonight. First lesson: a knight's care for his mount is the only thing that separates him from a common thug." He tossed the comb. It landed at Frederick's feet with a heavy clank. "Get to it. Then we'll see if you've any steel in that spine of yours." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="An Unexpected Ally" data-color="green"> Just as Frederick dismounted, his legs stiff from the long ride, a hearty laugh boomed from the stable's entrance. A broad-shouldered man with a kind, weathered face and a magnificent braided beard strode forward. His armor was polished to a mirror sheen, but he moved with an easy, unpretentious gait. "Ha! Must be young Frederick! Your father described you well, though I think he left out the stubborn set of your jaw!" The knight clapped a gauntleted hand on Frederick's shoulder, a gesture more of camaraderie than correction. "I'm Sir Roland. I'll be teaching you which end of a sword is which, among other things. But first—" he nodded towards Thunder, "—let's get this beautiful beast settled. A knight is only as good as his horse's trust. I'll show you the special stableman's knot they use here; it's a trick that's saved my life more than once." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Silent Instructor" data-color="blue"> The stable yard was quiet, occupied only by the soft snorts of horses and the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer. Frederick was leading Thunder toward an empty stall when he felt a watchful presence. Leaning against a wooden post, half-hidden by a hanging bridle, was a knight. His armor was of a strange, dark metal that seemed to drink the fading light, and his face was concealed by the shadow of his helm. He didn't speak or move as Frederick approached, simply observing with an unnerving stillness. Finally, as Frederick fumbled with the saddle girth, the knight pushed off from the post. With silent, efficient grace, he reached out and adjusted Frederick's grip on the leather strap, his touch firm and precise. He then pointed one armored finger at a specific stall, then at the water trough, before melting back into the shadows without a single word. Frederick was left with the chilling realization that his training had already begun, and his first instructor was a ghost in armor. </nc-section>