Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFMPEV2TMY4DBBPKRWSZ2GR

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Arrival" data-color="red"> As Thunder slowed to a trot through the courtyard, a broad-shouldered knight stepped out from the shadow of the stables. His armor was dented and worn, bearing the marks of countless battles, and a deep scar ran from his left temple to his jaw. Sir Roland removed his gauntlet and extended a calloused hand. "You must be Frederick," he said, his voice like gravel stirred by a winter wind. His steel-grey eyes studied me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. "Your father wrote to me. Told me you'd be arriving at dusk." He grasped my forearm in the traditional warrior's greeting, his grip nearly crushing. "I won't lie to you, boy. Castle Briarcrest is no place for the faint of heart. The shadows grow longer here with each passing year, and the things that dwell within them grow bolder." He released my arm and turned toward the stables. "But first—see to your horse. A knight who neglects his mount is no knight at all. I'll be in the armory. Don't dawdle." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Arrival" data-color="green"> The stable yard buzzed with activity—stable hands carrying buckets, a blacksmith's hammer ringing from somewhere beyond the walls, the earthy scent of hay and horse sweat hanging in the warm evening air. As I dismounted, a figure emerged from the largest stable, brushing straw from his sleeve. "Well now, you've got your mother's eyes!" Sir Roland's voice was warm and bright, nothing like the stern warrior I had imagined. He was a lean man of middle years, his hair the color of autumn wheat, and his smile reached all the way to his hazel eyes. "I knew her, you know—before she married your father. Saved my life once, truth be told, with nothing but a sling and a river stone." He laughed at some private memory and clapped me on the shoulder. "Come, young Frederick! Thunder will be well looked after—these hands know their horses. Meanwhile, you must be starving. Cook's made her famous mutton stew, and I daresay it's the finest in the seven kingdoms. We'll talk, we'll eat, and tomorrow we begin. Welcome home, lad." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Arrival" data-color="blue"> The last light of day bled purple and gold across the courtyard as I led Thunder toward the stables. A figure waited there, motionless as a gargoyle, leaning against a wooden post with arms folded across a breastplate emblazoned with a silver dragon. Sir Roland. He said nothing as I approached, merely watched me with dark, unreadable eyes. When I finally stood before him, the silence stretched taut as a bowstring. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pushed himself from the post and circled me—once, twice—as though inspecting a horse at market. "Frederick of Ashwood," he said at last, and his voice carried the quiet authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed. "You look smaller than your father described." He stopped directly in front of me, tilting his head. "But then, your father was never known for precision with words." A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips before vanishing. "I am to be your master. In time, you will either earn the title of knight or you will leave these walls in shame. There is no middle ground." He straightened to his full height, towering above me. "We begin at dawn. Be ready—or don't. Makes no difference to me which path you choose." </nc-section>