Run: 2026-04-27-01KQ72P7ZJ2CA27YEPH103S6N7

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Gauntlet of Greeting" data-color="red"> Thunder's hooves clattered rhythmically against the cobblestones as Frederick steered him through the main archway, the massive iron gates groaning shut behind him. The stable yard bustled with activity, the scent of fresh hay and oiled leather filling the air. As he dismounted, his breath ragged from the journey, a towering figure emerged from the shadows of the stall housing a black destrier. The man's armor was dull and scarred, but his eyes were sharp as flint. He stepped forward, the heavy thud of his greaves echoing. "Ride ends here, squire. I am Sir Roland," the knight announced, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in Frederick's chest. He extended a gauntleted hand, not in a gentle offer, but a test. "You'll need grip stronger than a babe's if you're to stand by the Last Dragon's side. Hand over the reigns." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Master of the Stables" data-color="green"> The stable doors stood ajar, revealing rows of horses snorting softly in the twilight. Frederick guided Thunder to a vacant rack, patting the stallion's neck; the beast's coat gleamed like dark emerald in the lantern light. "A fine mount to start a quest," a voice rumbled gently. Frederick turned to see a knight leaning against a post, his tabard woven with the verdant leaf crest of the Royal Guard. This was Sir Roland, though his demeanor lacked the harshness legends whispered of. He offered a warm smile, wiping a smudge of soot from his cheek. "I am Sir Roland, squire. You have a steady hand and a loyal steed; that is half the battle won before the first sword is drawn. Come, let us see to Thunder, and then I will tell you why the castle walls have been painted in dragon scales." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Weight of Shadows" data-color="blue"> Frederick's path led him to the stables, a structure of grey stone that seemed to absorb the dying light. The air here was cool and still, contrasting with the bustle of the courtyard. A figure waited by the water trough, watching a stream of clear water cascade over his gauntlet. His armor bore sapphire clasps, and his face was lined with the weight of many winters. "The wind carries your coming from the east, child," the knight said without turning. "I am Sir Roland. You are the new squire, I trust? The boy chosen for the Chronicles?" He finally looked up, his eyes pale and piercing as winter ice. "Prepare yourself. The Last Dragon does not demand bravery; he demands truth. And the stables are not the only place where shadows hide." </nc-section