Run: 2026-04-27-01KQ7257A9JFB7YRSWCEVQ4518

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Knight's Greeting" data-color="red"> Frederick pulled the reins tight as Thunder’s hooves clattered against the cobblestones, kicking up a fine haze of dust. Before the young squire could dismount, a heavy gauntlet clapped him on the shoulder. “Easy, lad, you’ll rattle his teeth loose.” The voice was rough as bark, belonging to a man leaning against the stable’s timber frame. Sir Roland looked every bit the local knight the rumors promised—scarred, broad-shouldered, and wearing a surcoat bleached pale by sun and rain rather than gleaming with ceremonial polish. His eyes, sharp and assessing, swept over Frederick’s gear. “Welcome to the keep,” Roland added, his tone leaving no room for flattery. “The stables are yours until you prove otherwise. Now, get down and see to your horse. Training doesn’t begin with a bow; it begins with dirt under your fingernails.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: Whispers of the Wild" data-color="green"> Thunder’s steady breathing slowed as Frederick guided him into the shadowed alcove of the lower stables. The air here smelled of damp hay, wet stone, and the faint, pine-needle sharpness of the high woods. A figure emerged from the dappled twilight, his cloak the deep green of forest leaves. “You ride with grace, but haste breeds ruin,” Sir Roland murmured, stepping forward to take the reins. His hands were gentle despite their calloused strength. Around the knight’s neck hung a pendant of polished amber, catching the last embers of the sunset. He offered Frederick a slow, measured nod. “The castle remembers those who honor its grounds. I am Roland. I’ll see your gear stored and your bed made. But first, tell me, squire—have you listened to the wind howling off the eastern peaks tonight? The old stone speaks before the dragon wakes.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Rite of Arrival" data-color="blue"> As Frederick slid from the saddle, his boots met the polished flagstones of the courtyard with a sharp ring. Before he could secure Thunder to the hitching post, a crisp voice cut through the twilight. “Secure your mount, Squire Frederick.” Sir Roland stood at the edge of the stable yard, his plate armor catching the fading light in shades of cerulean and steel. He wore his helm tucked under one arm, his face clean-shaven and set in the disciplined lines of a man bound by oath. A squire rushed forward to assist, but Roland raised a single finger to halt the boy, keeping his gaze locked on Frederick. “In this house, we honor the chain of command. I am Sir Roland, Captain of the West Gate. Your training begins at first light. Until then, you will wash the road from your blade and present yourself to the armory master. Welcome to the order.” </nc-section>