Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFMW03NBRC2E7R3VH4P6GCQ

<nc-section data-title="Sir Roland's Greeting" data-color="red"> As I guided Thunder into the shadowed cool of the stables, the clatter of armored boots echoed against the cobblestones. A broad-shouldered knight stood by the water trough, his weathered face etched with the lines of a hundred battles. He wore a surcoat bearing the crimson lion of the realm, and his eyes—sharp as a hawk's—fixed upon me with undisguised scrutiny. "So you're the new squire," Sir Roland said, his voice a gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate in my chest. He set down the leather bucket he'd been carrying and crossed his arms. "I had expected someone... older." My cheeks burned with a flush that had nothing to do with the day's ride. I slid from Thunder's back with what I hoped was practiced grace and offered a formal bow. "Frederick of Ashvale, my lord. I assure you, I am quite capable." The knight's stern expression cracked—not quite a smile, but something close. "We shall see, lad. We shall see." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Sir Roland's Greeting" data-color="green"> The smell of hay and horse sweat greeted me as Thunder carried me into the dim interior of the stables. Lanterns swayed from hooks, casting dancing shadows across the wooden stalls. It was then that a voice called out from the shadows, startling me so badly that I nearly fell from my saddle. "Careful there, boy!" A knight emerged from between the stalls, wiping his hands on a rag. He was tall, with silver streaking through his dark hair, and carried himself with the easy confidence of a man who had known the battlefield intimately. His armor bore the green chevron of the castle guard. "Sir Roland," he introduced himself with a nod. "I head the training grounds here. You must be the new one they've been talking about." He appraised me with a look that was neither cruel nor kind—merely assessing. "They say you come highly recommended. Words are wind, lad. Let's see what your steel is made of." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Sir Roland's Greeting" data-color="blue"> The stables were warm and dimly lit when I arrived, the scent of straw and leather filling my nostrils. I had barely dismounted when a figure stepped from behind a stall, moving with the quiet grace that only came from years of martial training. "Frederick, I presume?" The knight's voice carried the weight of authority. He was not old, but his bearing spoke of experience beyond his years. A blue tabard draped over his chainmail, trimmed in silver thread that caught the lantern light. His jaw was strong, his eyes the grey of a winter sea. He extended a gloved hand. "Sir Roland. I've been expecting you." I took his grip—firm, calloused, warm despite the metal covering his fingers. "I apologize if I've kept you waiting, sir." A ghost of amusement flickered across his features. "Patience is a knight's virtue, young Frederick. Come. There is much to do before dawn." </nc-section>