Run: 2026-04-24-01KPZTW2W5DXG7PY7TGRMZ8FER

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Knight's Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted near the stables, the scent of fresh hay and saddle oil filled my nostrils. A towering figure emerged from the shadows of the stable doorway, his armor catching the last rays of the setting sun. Sir Roland, the castle's most renowned knight, strode toward me with a commanding presence that made my knees weaken. "You must be Frederick," he boomed, his voice like thunder rolling across distant hills. His weathered face bore the scars of a hundred battles, yet his eyes held a surprising warmth. "I've heard much about you from your father. A fine man, he was." I bowed deeply, my hand trembling as I held Thunder's reins. "Sir Roland, it is an honor beyond words." He clapped a heavy gauntleted hand on my shoulder, nearly buckling my knees. "None of that now, boy. Save your honor for the battlefield. Tonight, we feast. Tomorrow, we begin making a knight of you." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Scarred Knight" data-color="green"> The stables smelled of hay, leather, and horse sweat—a scent I would come to know as intimately as my own breath. I was leading Thunder toward an empty stall when a voice called out behind me. "That's a fine beast you've got there." I turned to find a man leaning against a wooden post, arms crossed over a tunic bearing the royal crest. A jagged scar ran from his temple to his jaw, and his dark hair was streaked with premature gray. Though he wore no armor, I knew at once this was Sir Roland—the knight whose deeds were sung in every tavern from here to the western sea. "Thank you, sir," I stammered, suddenly aware of how travel-worn and dusty I must appear. Sir Roland pushed off the post and approached, circling Thunder with the practiced eye of a cavalryman. "Strong legs. Good chest. He'll serve you well." Then his sharp gaze turned on me. "The question is, squire—will you serve him? A knight who cannot care for his mount cannot care for his men. Remember that, and we shall get along famously." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: First Meeting" data-color="blue"> Thunder's hooves clattered against the cobblestones as we approached the stables. A stableboy rushed forward to take the reins, but before I could dismount properly, another figure appeared—tall, broad-shouldered, and moving with the unmistakable grace of a seasoned warrior. "Welcome to Thornwall Castle, young Frederick." Sir Roland was not what I had expected. The ballads painted him as a grizzled giant, but the man before me was perhaps only ten years my senior, with kind blue eyes and a neatly trimmed auburn beard. He wore a simple green cloak over his tunic, and a longsword hung at his hip as naturally as another man might carry a walking stick. "Sir Roland." I dropped to one knee on the cobblestones. "I pledge my service to you and to the crown." He laughed—a genuine, hearty sound—and pulled me back to my feet. "Up, up. You'll have plenty of time for kneeling in the years to come. For now, let's see to your horse, find you some supper, and tomorrow we shall discover what sort of squire the road has delivered to my doorstep." </nc-section>