Run: 2026-04-24-01KPZTWAZ0GWFPVQ40FD2A8R0D

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Knight's Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted near the stables, the scent of hay and leather filling my nostrils, a towering figure emerged from the shadows of the archway. Sir Roland was exactly as the stories described him—broad-shouldered, with a silver-streaked beard and eyes the color of tempered steel. His armor bore the scars of a hundred battles, yet it gleamed in the fading sunlight as though freshly polished. "So, you're the new squire," he said, his voice a low rumble that reminded me of distant thunder. He circled Thunder once, running a gloved hand along the stallion's flank with the practiced ease of a man who knew horses as well as he knew swords. "Fine mount. A horse says much about its rider." I straightened my back, trying to appear taller than my sixteen years. "Frederick of Ashmere, my lord. Reporting for training." Sir Roland's stern face cracked into the barest hint of a smile. "Save the 'my lords' for the king, boy. Here, you'll call me Sir Roland, and you'll call me it often—usually when I'm shouting at you." He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder, nearly buckling my knees. "Welcome to Greyhold." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Scarred Knight" data-color="green"> The stables smelled of fresh straw and oiled leather, a comforting perfume after my long journey. I had just handed Thunder's reins to a stable boy when a shadow fell across the doorway. "You must be Frederick." The voice was quiet, almost gentle, but it carried the weight of absolute authority. I turned to find a man leaning against the stable post—not as tall as I had imagined, but lean and coiled like a drawn bowstring. A jagged scar traced its way from his left temple down to his jaw, disappearing into a short, dark beard. This was Sir Roland, the Hero of Blackwater Ford. "Sir." I bowed deeply, perhaps too deeply, for I heard him chuckle. "Easy, lad. Keep that up and you'll meet the cobblestones before you meet my sword." He stepped forward, and I noticed he walked with a slight limp—a souvenir, no doubt, from one of the campaigns that had made him legend. "I trust your journey was uneventful?" "Yes, Sir Roland." "Pity." His green eyes sparkled with mischief. "The road teaches lessons no training yard can. But don't worry—I have a feeling your education begins at dawn tomorrow, and you won't find it dull." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: Meeting the Master" data-color="blue"> Thunder's hooves clattered against the cobblestones of the stable yard, and the sound seemed to summon him from the dusk itself. Sir Roland stood waiting, a lantern in one hand, its golden light pooling at his feet. He wore no armor now—only a simple tunic of deep blue, belted at the waist—yet he carried himself with such quiet authority that I knew him at once. "Frederick." He spoke my name as though he had been saying it for years, testing its weight. "I expected you yesterday." Heat rushed to my cheeks. "The river crossing at Elmsworth was flooded, Sir. I had to ride north to the old bridge." He studied me for a long moment, and I felt every weakness in my posture, every speck of road dust on my cloak, laid bare beneath that gaze. Then, to my surprise, he nodded. "Good. A squire who blames the weather or the road is a squire who will one day blame his sword for a battle lost. You took responsibility. That is where we begin." He raised the lantern, illuminating a narrow door set into the keep's side. "Stable your horse. See him fed and brushed—by your own hand, not a servant's. Then come to the hall. We have much to discuss before the night ends, young Frederick. Much indeed." </nc-section>