Run: 2026-04-24-01KPZV1MMTX97ES6ACR6KY89KW

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Knight's Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted, the smell of hay and horse sweat filled my nostrils. A towering figure emerged from the shadows of the stable, his armor glinting faintly in the dying light. Sir Roland was everything the bards had sung of—broad-shouldered, with a weathered face carved by countless battles and a beard streaked with silver. "You must be Frederick," he said, his voice a low rumble that matched the distant thunder on the horizon. He extended a gauntleted hand, calloused and scarred. "I've been expecting you. Your father spoke highly of your promise before he passed." I swallowed hard, trying to hide the tremor in my hands as I grasped his. His grip was iron, his eyes sharper still—as if they could see every doubt I harbored in my heart. "I'll do my best to honor his memory, my lord," I managed. Sir Roland chuckled, a sound like stones tumbling down a well. "We'll see about that, lad. The best kind of squire is one who doesn't yet know what he's capable of. Come—tend to your horse, then meet me in the courtyard. Your training begins at dawn." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Shadow at the Stables" data-color="green"> Thunder's hooves clattered against the cobblestones as I guided him toward the stables. The scent of oiled leather and damp straw greeted me before I even dismounted. That was when I saw him—Sir Roland, leaning against a wooden post with the casual grace of a man who had never been unseated in his life. He wasn't what I expected. No gleaming armor, no proud plume. Just a simple tunic, breeches, and a sword belt slung low on his hips. But there was something in his stance, a coiled stillness, that made me straighten my back instinctively. "So," he said, pushing off from the post. "The boy from the western provinces. They told me you'd be taller." My cheeks burned. "I—my lord, I—" "Breathe, squire." A crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'm teasing. A knight who cannot laugh is a knight who has forgotten why he fights." He reached out and patted Thunder's neck with practiced ease. "Fine beast. You've cared for him well on the road. That tells me more about you than any letter of recommendation." He turned, gesturing for me to follow. "Come. There's stew in the hall, and stories to tell before we speak of swords." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: Iron and Ashes" data-color="blue"> I had barely swung down from the saddle when a voice cut through the evening air like a blade through silk. "You're late." I spun around. Sir Roland stood not ten paces away, arms crossed, his expression unreadable in the fading light. He was younger than I had imagined—perhaps no more than thirty—but his eyes held the weight of a man three times his age. A long scar ran from his left temple down to his jaw, disappearing into the dark stubble of his beard. "Forgive me, Sir Roland. The road from Ellsworth was—" "Flooded. I know. The messenger arrived yesterday." He stepped closer, and I could see the fine chainmail beneath his dark surcoat. "But a knight, Frederick, does not explain. He arrives, or he does not. Remember that." I bowed my head. "Yes, my lord." "Good." To my surprise, his stern expression softened, and he clapped a hand on my shoulder with enough force to make my knees buckle. "Now. Stable your horse. Wash the road from your face. Tonight you eat with the men. Tomorrow—" his grip tightened, "—tomorrow you become one of them. Or you go home. The choice, as always, will be yours." He turned and strode toward the keep, leaving me alone with Thunder and the weight of what I had chosen. </nc-section>