Run: 2026-04-24-01KPZV1MACATQTVY8FQCYW0P3D

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Knight's Welcome" data-color="red"> The clatter of Thunder's hooves on the cobblestones drew the attention of a tall figure emerging from the stables. Sir Roland, his armor bearing the scuffs and scratches of a hundred skirmishes, strode forward with a commanding presence that belied the warmth in his weathered face. A thick beard, streaked with silver, framed a smile that was both welcoming and appraising. "You must be Frederick," he called out, his voice deep as distant thunder. He reached up to steady my horse as I dismounted, my legs stiff from the long ride. "I am Sir Roland, and for the next three years, I shall be the bane of your existence." I blinked, uncertain how to respond, until I caught the glint of mischief in his pale blue eyes. "Come, lad," he laughed, clapping a gauntleted hand on my shoulder with enough force to nearly drive me to my knees. "Let us get Thunder here settled, and then we shall see what manner of squire the kingdom has sent me this time." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Measure of a Squire" data-color="green"> As I guided Thunder toward the stables, a shadow detached itself from the doorway and resolved into the figure of a knight. He was not as tall as I had imagined a knight of his renown would be, but there was a density to him, a coiled strength in the way he moved that spoke of countless hours in the training yard and on the battlefield. "Frederick of Ashbrook, I presume?" Sir Roland's voice was quiet, measured, the voice of a man who had long ago learned that he did not need to shout to be heard. "Yes, my lord." I bowed, perhaps too deeply, and felt heat rise to my cheeks. "Just 'Sir Roland' will do. Or 'Sir,' when you're too tired to manage the whole of it—which will be often, I assure you." He stepped closer and ran a practiced eye over Thunder, then over me. Whatever he saw in either of us, he kept to himself. "Tend to your horse first. A squire who cares not for his mount cares not for himself, and I have no use for either. When you are finished, find me in the armory." With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me with more questions than answers. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: Iron and Introduction" data-color="blue"> The stable doors stood open, spilling golden lamplight onto the cobblestones, and there, framed in that warm glow, stood Sir Roland. I knew him at once, though I had never laid eyes upon him. The tales told in my father's hall had painted him in colors too vivid to mistake: the Lion of the Western March, the knight who had held the Bridge of Varnes against fifty riders, the man whose sword had never known defeat. He was older than I had expected. Grey touched his temples, and fine lines creased the corners of his eyes. But when he smiled, crossing the yard to meet me, I understood why men had followed him into fire. "So the boy has finally arrived," he said, and to my astonishment, he offered his hand as an equal might. "Your father was a good man, Frederick. The finest I ever fought beside. I owe him a debt I can never repay, and so I mean to repay it to his son instead." I took his hand, my throat suddenly tight. I had come expecting a master. I had not expected to find a man who had loved my father. "Come," Sir Roland said gently, taking Thunder's reins. "You've ridden far. There will be time for training tomorrow. Tonight, we eat, and I shall tell you tales of the man who raised you." </nc-section>