Run: 2026-04-24-01KPZV65CNT5H0T9J2KRE2TGFE

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Knight's Welcome" data-color="red"> The stable doors creaked open as I dismounted, my boots hitting the packed earth with a weary thud. From the shadows emerged a towering figure clad in polished mail, a crimson surcoat bearing the sigil of a rampant lion draped across his broad chest. Sir Roland, the castle's most celebrated knight, approached with a measured stride, his weathered face breaking into a rare smile. "So you're the new squire they've been telling me about," he rumbled, his voice deep as a war drum. He clasped my shoulder with a grip that nearly buckled my knees. "Frederick, is it? I served under your father at the Battle of Thornfield. A finer swordsman I have never known." His dark eyes studied me intently, measuring, weighing. "Let us hope his blood runs true in your veins, lad. These are dangerous times, and I have need of a squire with courage." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Knight's Welcome" data-color="green"> I had barely led Thunder toward the stables when a voice called out from the shadows of the doorway. "You must be Frederick." The speaker stepped into the fading light—a tall man with silver threading through his dark beard, wearing a simple tunic stained with the honest labor of the training yard. Sir Roland, I realized with a start, looking far less imposing than the legends had led me to believe. He took Thunder's reins from my trembling hands with practiced ease, running a calloused palm along the stallion's neck. "A fine beast. You've cared for him well on the road." His gray eyes lifted to meet mine, and though his manner was gentle, there was steel beneath. "Come, lad. We'll see your horse settled, and then I'll show you to your quarters. Tomorrow we begin at dawn—and I warn you, I am not a patient teacher of the lazy." I bowed deeply, hoping he could not see how my hands still shook from the long ride. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Knight's Welcome" data-color="blue"> The clang of a hammer on steel rang from the smithy as I guided Thunder toward the stables, the scent of hay and horses thick in the evening air. Before I could call for a stable boy, a figure stepped out from behind a wooden post—a man not much taller than myself, but built like a fortress, with arms corded from decades of swordplay and a jagged scar running from temple to jaw. "Hold there, boy." His voice was gruff, suspicious. "State your name and purpose before you take another step toward my master's stables." "F-Frederick, sir. Son of Edmund of Greyhollow. I've come to serve as squire, by arrangement with the Lord Steward." The hard lines of his face softened, and he barked a laugh that startled Thunder. "By the saints, the pup has arrived at last! I am Sir Roland, and I'll be the one turning you from a soft-handed lordling into something resembling a warrior. Whether you survive the making—" he grinned wolfishly, "—well, that's up to you." </nc-section>