Run: 2026-03-25-01KMJ8HZC17K42B723XVTVBFD8

<nc-section data-title="Section 2: A Crimson Welcome" data-color="red"> Sir Roland stepped into the path of my hooves, his crimson cloak billowing like spilled wine in the wind. His gauntleted hand shot out, halting Thunder mid-stride with a firm tug. "Squire Frederick," he rumbled, his voice edged with the warmth of a forge and the chill of winter steel. "The Duke’s ward. By the codes, you should’ve arrived a fortnight ago." I dismounted, the stablemaster grumbling as he took Thunder’s reins. Sir Roland’s face was etched with lines like maps, his iron-grey beard twitching as he sized me up. "Your blade suits you, I assume?" He gestured to the rust-brown scabbard strapped to my side, a flicker of challenge in his blue eyes. A test already? The damp grass crunched beneath my boots as I followed him into the muddled shadows of the stables. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Section 2: Bells and Green Greetings" data-color="green"> A warm chuckle met me before I reached the stables. Sir Roland emerged from a bed of ivy, his green tabard embroidered with the forest’s latest leaves. "At last, the squire from Blackwood!" he boomed, his baldric clapping Twice against my shoulder. "Your horse’s breath matches the scent of thyme from the south garden—fortunate, as our stables favor a hay diet over roses." He pressed a thick, earth-scented bun into my hands, sticky from summer honey. "No need for drama today. Salvation begins with feeding horses and listening when old men speak." Thunder’s hoofbeats had slowed, mirrored now by the soft clatter of woodsmen’s mallets beyond the walls as dusk settled like a worn carpet. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Section 2: Blue Shadows and Stone Promises" data-color="blue"> The clatter of Thunder’s hooves echoed against the cobblestones as I entered the shadow of the stables. A figure loomed there: Sir Roland, his blue surcoat faded to the color of distant clouds. "Rise before sunset, squire," he intoned, his words carrying the weight of chiseled marble. "The castle keeps time like a pendulum—not in jest, nor in grace." He extended a gauntleted hand, his palm calloused from decades of hilt. "These grounds broke three squires last year. Your blades still sleepive in their sheaths?" I nodded, swallowing my nerves as he turned, his cloak rippling like water. The stables hummed with the scent of pine and oil, and my shadow stretched behind me like a thread foretelling the aeons of training to come. </nc-section>