Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ090T9EAQMCNKEE9H8S6Q7E

<nc-section data-title="A Knight's Scrutiny" data-color="red"> Sir Roland emerged from the stable's shadows as if he were part of the ironwork itself, his plate armor streaked with rust and old blood. He did not smile as Frederick approached; instead, he gripped the boy's shoulder with gauntleted fingers hard enough to bruise, turning him toward the scent of leather and dung. "So you are the one they sent," the knight growled, his voice like grinding millstones. "The stables do not care for your noble blood, boy. Here, you are less than the horses you will muck after. Prove otherwise, and I might teach you which end of a sword is the killing one." A lantern flickered overhead, casting his scarred face in jagged light, and Frederick felt his first true fear of the castle settle deep in his chest. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Hay and Handshakes" data-color="green"> Sir Roland was elbow-deep in a water trough when Frederick found him, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and mapped with faint scars. He straightened, wiping his hands on his tunic, and offered a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Ah, the young squire! I saw you riding up—fine seat, though you clutch the reins like you're trying to strangle a goose." He laughed, clapping Frederick's back with a palm rough as tree bark, and led him into the stable where the air smelled sweet with hay. The knight stopped beside a stall and ran an experienced hand along a mare's neck, speaking softly until she nickered in reply. "A knight is only as good as the horse beneath him and the ground he stands on. Start by knowing both. Grab a pitchfork, lad, and I'll tell you why this castle's foundations haven't shifted in three hundred years." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Blue Hour Welcome" data-color="blue"> Sir Roland stood at the stable doors as twilight bled across the courtyard, his silhouette framed by the last pale light of day. He wore no armor, only a faded azure surcoat that might once have been the color of summer skies, and his hair hung silver at his temples. When Frederick approached, the knight gave a curt nod—not unkind, but distant, as though greeting a ghost rather than a boy. "Frederick," he said, the name carrying a weight of quiet expectation. He reached out, not to clasp the boy's hand, but to adjust the strap of Frederick's travel satchel with mechanical precision. "The stables are quiet now. The horses remember what men forget: that stillness is not the same as peace." His eyes, the gray of winter rain, held Frederick's gaze for a long moment before he turned toward the rows of stalls. "Come. Your training begins not with a sword, but with listening to the silence between heartbeats." </nc-section>