Run: 2026-04-27-01KQ73AW2FXM1ZJM67GT3R8QSX

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Iron Gaze" data-color="red"> The stone arches of the stables swallowed the last of the afternoon light, replacing the golden sunset with the damp, earthy scent of hay and damp wood. Before Frederick could even fully dismount, a heavy boot crunched on the gravel path. Sir Roland emerged from the shadows, his polished breastplate catching the faint glow of a tallow lantern. He was a mountain of a man, scarred and broad-shouldered, with a gaze that seemed to weigh Frederick’s very soul. "Frederick," the knight rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "I've watched you ride in from the ridge. You have the posture of a rider, but squireship demands more than a fine horse. Drop your pack. You'll need your hands free for tomorrow's drills." Roland’s calloused hand rested on the pommel of his sword, not as a threat, but as a reminder of the duty awaiting them both. "Welcome to Castle Aethelgard. Try to keep up." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: Whispers in the Hayloft" data-color="green"> Mist curled around the wooden beams of the stables as Thunder snorted and lowered his head to graze on the scattered oats. From behind a stall door, Sir Roland stepped forth, his armor surprisingly free of the day’s dust. He was leaner than the courtly tales described, with eyes the color of moss after rain and a voice that carried the quiet confidence of an old forest. "A worthy mount for a promising rider," Roland noted, offering a gloved hand to steady Frederick as he climbed down. The knight’s smile was faint but genuine. "They say the last dragon's shadow still stretches across these hills, but tonight, it's just you and me, lad." He gestured toward the dimly lit corridor beyond. "Your training begins before dawn. We'll start with the old ways—blade, shield, and the stories that bind them. Rest well, Frederick. The mountain remembers those who climb it with respect." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Squire's First Dawn" data-color="blue"> The stables hummed with the restless energy of a hundred horses, their rhythmic snorts and shifting hooves echoing off the vaulted stone ceiling. Frederick had just unfastened his saddle when a sharp tap of iron on cobblestone announced his arrival. Sir Roland stood at the end of the aisle, his blue-plumed helm tucked under one arm, his gaze sharp and unyielding beneath the brim. "Right on time, Squire Frederick," the knight declared, his voice cutting through the stable's din. He stepped forward, his boots ringing with precise cadence. "In this castle, punctuality is the first virtue of a warrior. You'll find your quarters in the eastern tower, and your practice blade awaits in the yard." Roland clapped a firm hand on Frederick's shoulder, the weight of it both reassuring and grounding. "The road to knighthood is paved with iron and sweat. I expect you to walk it with your head high and your eyes forward. Now, see to your horse, and prepare to face the dawn." </nc-section>