Run: 2026-04-27-01KQ7382G3KGMRDCWHZ7M0ZJ3H

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Forge of Steel" data-color="red"> Thunder’s hooves struck cobblestone with a steady rhythm as I guided him past the towering gates and toward the sprawling stables at the castle’s eastern wing. I had barely untied the reins when a figure emerged from the shadowed archway between the hayloft and the farrier’s forge. Iron-shod boots crunched against the gravel before a man clad in scarred leather and chainmail stepped into the fading light. A long, pale scar bisected his left eyebrow, giving his already stern gaze a perpetually hawkish edge. "You must be Frederick," the knight said, his voice like gravel grinding under a millstone. He offered a gauntleted hand. "I am Sir Roland, master-at-arms and your overseer. Leave the easy riding to tomorrow. Tonight, you learn that armor doesn’t care how noble your steed is—it only cares if your grip holds when the steel bites." He tossed a heavy training sword into my palms. It nearly buckled my knees. "Welcome to the order. The dragon’s shadow lengthens, boy. We have no time for hesitation." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: Whispers in the Hay" data-color="green"> I led Thunder into the familiar scented embrace of the stables, where the sharp tang of oak shavings and polished tack hung heavy in the cooling air. Before I could reach for the water bucket, a soft sigh drew my attention to the far end of the aisle. A knight stood patiently brushing a sorrel mare, his posture relaxed despite the weight of his ceremonial breastplate. He turned as I approached, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a warmth that belied the hardened lines around his mouth. "Easy does it, lad," he said, offering a welcoming nod as he set the curry comb aside. "Thunder’s earned himself a quiet evening. I’m Sir Roland. Wardens of this keep, and as of this moment, your first true master." He stepped closer, resting a calloused hand on my shoulder. "Knighthood is not forged in the clash of blades alone, Frederick. It’s built in the quiet hours—tending wounds, mending gear, and learning when to strike and when to yield. The great wyrm may be gone, but the world still trembles in their wake. We’ll walk this path together, one careful step at a time." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Weight of Wings" data-color="blue"> The stables rose like a ribcage of timber and stone beside the lower training yards, their heavy wooden doors groaning as I pulled Thunder to a halt. I had barely dropped to the cobblestones when a voice called out from the dusk. "Do not bow your head just yet, squire. You’ll need your neck straight for what comes next." The speaker stepped from the gloom of a supply alcove, his travel cloak dusted with cobweb and old parchment. Beneath the hood rested the weathered face of Sir Roland, his signet ring flashing with the sigil of a coiled serpent. He offered a slow, deliberate acknowledgment. "Frederick of the outer marches, I greet you at the threshold of your vows." His eyes gleamed with an intensity that felt older than the castle itself. "They sent you here for more than sword drills, do you know that? The chronicles say the last dragon’s ember sleeps beneath these very foundations. I have guarded that silence for thirty years. Tonight, you learn to listen to the stone. Tomorrow, you learn to stand when the sky burns." </nc-section>