Run: 2026-04-24-01KPZV4TD0TKJT5AK53M1E8VDG

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Knight's Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted near the stables, the scent of hay and horseflesh filled my nostrils. A tall figure emerged from the shadows of the wooden archway, his silver hair catching the last rays of the dying sun. Sir Roland, the legendary knight whose deeds I had heard whispered of in every tavern from here to the southern coast, strode towards me with the measured gait of a man who had survived countless battles. "You must be Frederick," he said, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder. His weathered face bore the scars of a lifetime of service, but his eyes were kind. "I've been expecting you, boy. Your father was a good man, and I see much of him in you already." I bowed deeply, suddenly aware of how travel-worn and dusty I must appear. "Sir Roland, it is an honor beyond words." He clapped a heavy gauntleted hand upon my shoulder, nearly buckling my knees. "Save your pretty words for the court, lad. Here in the stables, we speak plainly—and we work hard. Your training begins at dawn." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Old Lion" data-color="green"> The stables smelled of leather and sweat, a comforting aroma that reminded me of my father's farm. I was tending to Thunder, brushing the dust from his flank, when I heard the unmistakable clink of chainmail behind me. "A man who sees to his horse before himself," a gravelly voice observed. "That's the mark of a proper rider." I turned to find myself face to face with Sir Roland himself. He was older than I had imagined—perhaps sixty winters—but he stood straight as an oak, and the broadsword at his hip looked as though it had seen recent use. A long scar traced from his temple to his jaw, disappearing into a salt-and-pepper beard. "Sir Roland," I stammered, dropping into a clumsy bow that nearly sent my brush clattering to the cobblestones. He chuckled, a sound like gravel in a wooden bowl. "Easy, squire. You'll have plenty of time to embarrass yourself in the coming weeks. Tell me—do you know why your lord sent you here, to this particular castle, to train under this particular old lion?" I shook my head, and Sir Roland's smile faded into something altogether more serious. "Because something is stirring in the mountains, Frederick. Something that hasn't walked these lands in three hundred years." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Meeting at Dusk" data-color="blue"> I led Thunder toward the stables, my legs stiff from the long ride. The courtyard was quieter than I expected—a few servants hurrying with buckets, a blacksmith's hammer ringing in the distance, and the soft nickering of horses settling in for the night. Near the stable entrance stood a knight in half-plate armor, polishing the blade of a longsword with practiced, rhythmic strokes. He looked up as I approached, and his sharp blue eyes took my measure in a single heartbeat. I felt suddenly small, as though every flaw in my posture and every speck of road dust on my cloak had been cataloged and filed away. "Frederick of Ashford, I presume?" He sheathed his sword in one fluid motion and stepped forward. "I am Sir Roland, Knight-Captain of this castle. Your lord sent word ahead of your arrival." "Sir." I inclined my head, not trusting my voice to remain steady. He studied me for a long moment, then nodded toward Thunder. "A fine animal. You'll see to him yourself—every day, every meal, every brushing. A knight who cannot care for his mount cannot care for his men, and a knight who cannot care for his men has no business wearing spurs." He turned toward the keep, then paused. "When you're finished, come to the great hall. There are matters we must discuss before your training begins. Matters that could not be entrusted to a letter." As he walked away, I noticed his hand never strayed far from the hilt of his sword—as if he expected, at any moment, to need it. </nc-section>