Run: 2026-04-27-01KQ76QEJVENPXTB209GKP74MG

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: Steel and Ash" data-color="red"> Frederick pulled the reins tight, Thunder’s hooves clattering hard against the cobblestone as the stallion slowed to a walk. Smoke from the armory forge mingled with the evening chill, carrying the sharp, grounding scent of oiled leather and damp straw. Leaning against a heavy oak stall door was a knight whose plate armor bore the deep scuffs of daily sparring rather than ceremonial polish. "You're on the dot, squire," the knight called out, pushing off the wood with a heavy, grounded tread. He removed his dented helm, revealing a face carved by wind, salt, and old war scars. "I am Sir Roland, castellan and your new master. Take the beast to Barnard’s stall—mind his temper when you brush him. Sleep sound tonight. Tomorrow, the practice sword starts." His voice was rough as gravel, but his eyes held the quiet, unyielding promise of rigor. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Verdant Oath" data-color="green"> With a fluid dismount, Frederick let Thunder’s lead rope slacken, the great beast stepping into the cool shadow of the stable archway. The dying sun filtered through the high thatched roof, catching dust motes that danced like suspended emeralds in the twilight. From behind a rack of woven bridles emerged a figure cloaked not in cold steel, but in a dark green jerkin embroidered with silver thistle and ivy. Sir Roland stepped forward, his movements as quiet as falling leaves. "The mountain roads are long, young one," he murmured, offering a calloused but gentle hand. "I am Sir Roland, sworn watcher of these high passes. Your horse will find sweet grass here, and you will find a calling. The sword does not conquer the realm alone; it guards the peace between breath and breath. Come. Let us make you whole." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Azure Watch" data-color="blue"> Frederick reined Thunder in beside the stone trough, the water catching the last reflections of the twilight sky. A sudden clink of chainmail echoed from the corridor, sharp and rhythmic. Sir Roland emerged from the shadows, his armor polished to a mirror sheen that caught the blue-hued dusk. A silver hawk emblem rested over his heart, and a heavy cloak draped over his shoulders seemed to swallow the fading light. "Welcome to the citadel, squire," Sir Roland’s voice rang clear, carrying the crisp authority of a man accustomed to command. He approached with measured steps, a leather-bound ledger tucked under one arm. "I am Sir Roland, master of the guard. You will stable Thunder in the west wing—keep his bits polished and his tack dry. Tonight you rest. Tomorrow, you report to the training yard at first bell. The realm's shadow lengthens, and we have little time for hesitation." He offered a single, stiff nod, his gaze already scanning Frederick for signs of strength and discipline. </nc-section>