Run: 2026-04-27-01KQ6Z7EZ5TDC71C33DNVGRCNW

<nc-section data-title="The Knight of Steel" data-color="red"> Cobblestones clattered beneath Thunder's hooves as I guided him toward the shadowed archway of the stables. The air here was thick with the smell of oiled leather and hot iron. Standing by the hitching post was a mountain of a man in plate armor that bore the scars of a hundred battles. This was Sir Roland. He didn't bow; he didn't smile. He stood like a bastion, one hand resting heavily on the pommel of a broadsword etched with blood-runes. His eyes, cold as flint, scanned my form with dissecting precision, lingering on my shaking hands and the fresh polish of my boots. "You are the boy from the valley?" he rumbled, his voice like grinding millstones. He stepped closer, the joints of his armor hissing. "They say you have potential. Steel is forged in fire, boy, not coddled in softness. If your heart beats as fast as your pulse races, you'll last a week before the first goblin sends you running back to your mother's apron. Dismount. Let us see if you can hold your ground when the shouting starts." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Hearth of the Stables" data-color="green"> I steered Thunder into the bustle of the stables, where the air was warm and sweet with the scent of hay and apples. Near the watering trough, a man in a leather jerkin over a shirt of chainmail was vigorously brushing down a nervous bay mare. He looked up as I approached, his beard tangled with twigs and his eyes crinkling with a hearty laugh. This was Sir Roland, though he looked less like a knight and more like a woodsman who had wandered into the castle by mistake. He tossed the brush aside and trotted over, slapping a calloused, stained hand onto Thunder's neck, whispering something soothing that calmed the stallion instantly. Roland turned his attention to me, grinning broadly as he extended a hand. "Well met, lad! I'm Roland. Master of the Horselands and, by the King's decree, your tormentor for the foreseeable future." His grip was firm and warm when I took his hand. "You ride with a good ear, I can tell. Thunder here tells me you've got spirit. Keep that, and you might just grow into a dragon-slayer yet. Now, tie him up and grab a bucket; the mud won't muck itself out!" </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Rune-Carved Welcome" data-color="blue"> The stables stood unnervingly quiet, as if the very stones held their breath. I dismounted with trembling legs, the weight of my arrival pressing upon me. From the deepest shadow of the far stall, a figure emerged. Sir Roland moved with a unnatural grace, his armor etched with pulsing runes that shifted like liquid silver. He carried no weapon, only a long staff of weirwood topped with a crystal that hummed with a low, throbbing light. He stopped inches from my face, his gaze piercing, searching the depths of my soul rather than my gear. The air around us grew cold, smelling of ozone and ancient dust. He didn't speak for a long, agonizing moment. Finally, he leaned in close, his voice a whisper that seemed to echo from the walls themselves. "The blood of the mountain sings on you, boy," Roland murmured, his eyes widening as he touched the crystal to my forehead. A jolt of energy raced through my veins. "The Last Dragon dreams in the deep, and now he wakes... because of you. Welcome, Frederick. Your training is not for war. It is for survival against what comes next." </nc-section>