Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0G3E331KNCD3HGK9MKB62N

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight's Welcome (Version 1)" data-color="red"> The stable yard smelled of fresh hay and horse sweat as I dismounted, my boots sinking into the soft earth. Before I could lead Thunder to his stall, a towering figure emerged from the shadow of the stable doorway. Sir Roland was every bit the legend the bards had sung of—broad-shouldered, clad in burnished mail that caught the dying sunlight, a crimson cloak draped across his back. A jagged scar ran from his temple to his jaw, pale against his weathered skin. "You must be Frederick," he said, his voice deep as a well. He extended a gauntleted hand, calloused and firm. "I am Sir Roland. I've been expecting you." I bowed hastily, nearly tripping over my own feet. "Sir, it is an honor." He chuckled, a sound that rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest. "Save the honors for when you've earned them, lad. For now, tend to your horse. A knight who cannot care for his mount cannot care for his kingdom." His grey eyes glinted with something between amusement and challenge. "We begin at dawn." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight's Welcome (Version 2)" data-color="green"> As I reined Thunder to a halt before the stables, a figure stepped out from behind the wooden post where he'd apparently been waiting. He was older than I had expected—perhaps fifty winters—with silver threading through his dark beard and eyes the color of storm clouds. Yet there was nothing feeble about him. He moved with the easy grace of a man who had spent decades making violence look effortless. "Frederick of Ashvale, I presume?" His voice was quieter than I had imagined, almost gentle. I slid from the saddle and bent my knee to the dirt. "Sir Roland. My father sends his regards." "Rise, boy. The ground is no place for a squire to make his first impression." He studied me a moment, then offered the faintest of smiles. "Your father and I bled together at Greymoor. If you've even half his spine, we'll make something of you yet." He took Thunder's reins from my hand with practiced ease. "Come. The cook has saved you supper, though I cannot vouch for its warmth. Training begins before the bells at dawn, and I've no patience for a hungry squire." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight's Welcome (Version 3)" data-color="blue"> I had barely swung my leg over the saddle when a voice boomed across the courtyard, startling Thunder so that he whickered and stamped. "By the Seven, is that the Ashvale boy? Or has someone sent me a scarecrow in fine boots?" I turned to see a knight striding toward me from the direction of the armory, still pulling off his practice gloves. Sir Roland was younger than I had imagined—no more than thirty—with a shock of red hair and a grin that suggested trouble followed wherever he walked. He was built like an oak, broad and unmovable, and his surcoat bore the gold griffin of the royal guard. "Sir Roland," I stammered, attempting a formal bow while still holding Thunder's reins. "None of that stiffness, lad. Save it for when the old lords are watching." He clapped a hand on my shoulder with enough force to rattle my teeth. "I knew you'd arrive before sundown—you've your mother's stubbornness in the set of your jaw. I'd wager a silver piece on it." He glanced at Thunder with an appraising eye. "Handsome beast. Let's get him stabled, and then you and I shall have words over a cup of ale. There are things about this castle you'll want to know before morning—things they won't tell you in the great hall." </nc-section>