Run: 2026-03-15-01KKS328QVWZFTMY5TP5ZNYQFS

<nc-section data-title="The Knight's Welcome" data-color="red"> As I guided Thunder into the stable yard, a figure detached itself from the shadows near the farrier's station. The man was broad as an ox, with arms like oak branches and a scar that ran from his left eyebrow down to his jaw. He wore a simple leather jerkin, though I could see the dented plate of his armor stacked nearby. "So you're the new squire," he said, his voice like gravel grinding under boot heels. "Frederick, isn't it?" I swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes, ser." "I'm Sir Roland. And let me make one thing perfectly clear." He stepped closer, and I caught the scent of iron and horse sweat. "I don't coddle. I don't patience. And I certainly don't make exceptions. You fall behind, you get left behind. Understood?" Before I could respond, his hand shot out and gripped my shoulder with bruising force. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. "But you got here before sundown. That's more than the last three managed." <nc-section data-title="A Friendly Face" data-color="green"> Thunder's hooves clattered against the cobblestones as I entered the stable yard, and I immediately spotted a knight brushing down a bay mare. He looked up at my approach, his weathered face breaking into a warm grin. "Ah, you must be Frederick!" He set aside the curry comb and strode over, extending a calloused hand. "I'm Sir Roland. Welcome to Dragon's Keep." I shook his hand, surprised by his friendliness. "Thank you, ser. I wasn't sure what to expect." "Nor should you be," he laughed, clapping me on the back. "The castle has a way of surprising newcomers. But don't worry—I'll show you the ropes. Where to sleep, where to eat, and most importantly, where to avoid." He leaned in conspiratorially. "The east wing after dark, for instance. Trust me on that one." He took Thunder's reins from me with practiced ease. "First things first, though. Let's get your horse settled, and then I'll introduce you to the others." <nc-section data-title="The Silent Greeting" data-color="blue"> The stables were quiet when I arrived, save for the soft nickering of horses in their stalls. A man stood alone at the far end, his back to me, staring at something pinned to the wooden wall. He didn't turn when I entered, didn't acknowledge Thunder's snort or the creak of my saddle as I dismounted. I waited, uncertain. Minutes passed. Finally, he spoke without turning. "You're late." "The roads were muddy, ser. I—" "Excuses are the first refuge of the incompetent." He turned then, revealing a face carved from stone—hard angles, cold grey eyes, and a mouth set in a permanent frown. "I am Sir Roland. You will address me as such, or not at all." He walked past me without another word, pausing only to glance at Thunder. "Your horse is lame on the left fore. See to it before the hour is out." And then he was gone, leaving me alone with the silence and the weight of his judgment.