Run: 2026-04-27-01KQ730VY97ZWB3A60BAQCMNMA

<nc-section data-title="Section 2: The Iron Welcome" data-color="red"> I reined Thunder in near the heavy timber doors of the stables, the cloying scent of leather and damp hay replacing the open-field breeze. Before I could even swing my leg over the saddle horn, boots struck the cobblestones behind me. Sir Roland stood there, his plate armor scuffed from countless drills, a practiced hand resting on the pommel of a broadsword. He didn't offer a smile. Instead, his eyes, sharp as flint, assessed my posture, my grip on the reins, the dirt on my cloak. "Frederick of the lowlands," he stated, his voice carrying the weight of gravel and steel. "You've made it past the border watches. That's the first test." I dismounted quickly, saluting with a palm to my chest. "Thank you, sir. I mean to do my duty." Roland stepped closer, the metal of his greaves clinking softly. "Duty isn't given here, squire. It's forged. And the fire is hot. Take the beast to the third stall. Break your fast in the mess hall. Sleep lightly. The dragon's legacy does not tolerate weakness." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Section 2: Roots and Steel" data-color="green"> Thunder's hooves clattered against the lower courtyard stones as I guided him toward the newly walled stables, where ivy curled thick around the support beams. I was halfway up the mounting block when a calm voice cut through the twilight. "An impressive mount. Though he favors his left fore hoof; you'll want him seen to." I turned to find Sir Roland leaning against a weathered oak, his armor polished but unadorned, a simple green tabard bearing a coiled serpent draped over his shoulders. He pushed off the tree and approached with an easy, grounded stride. "I am Roland," he said, extending a calloused hand. "And you must be the lad they sent from the valley." I took it, surprised by the warmth beneath the rough skin. "Frederick, sir. It's an honor." Roland's grip was firm, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Honor is earned in the quiet hours, not the loud ones. The stables master is expecting your boy. Rest your bones tonight. Tomorrow, we begin with the blade, the shield, and the silence. The Last Dragon does not wait for the hesitant." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Section 2: Echoes of the Wyrm" data-color="blue"> The stable doors loomed ahead, massive shutters carved with ancient runestones that seemed to glow faintly in the dying light. I pulled Thunder to a halt and began unfastening the saddle, my shoulders aching from the long ride. A soft tread approached from the shadowed archway, followed by the faint scent of pine and old parchment. Sir Roland stood a few paces off, his armor a dull, non-reflective grey, a silver circlet resting beneath his helm. He watched me for a long moment, his expression unreadable as winter glass. "Frederick," he finally murmured, his voice low and resonant, carrying the cadence of someone accustomed to speaking in hallowed halls. No handshake, only a slow, deliberate nod that spoke of deep respect. "The keep has called for you. That is no small thing." I straightened, suddenly hyper-aware of every stitch in my tunic, every scar on my knuckles. "I am ready to serve, Sir Roland." His gaze drifted past me, toward the jagged peaks shrouded in mist beyond the valley. "Service is a chain that binds past to future, boy. See to your horse. The stars will be high before I return. We have much to learn of the old ways, and little time to learn it." </nc-section>