Run: 2026-04-27-01KQ7700V87KFAGB6K4PJ0TST9

<nc-section data-title="The Ember Welcome" data-color="red"> Frederick eased his weight from the saddle, Thunder’s snort cooling the evening air as his hooves struck the worn cobblestones. Before he could unfasten his travel-stained cloak, a shadow detached itself from the timber stables. Sir Roland emerged, his chainmail catching the dying light like banked coals. The knight’s presence was as heavy as the iron at his hip, his beard streaked with ash and experience. “Frederick of Oakhaven,” Roland’s voice rumbled, cutting through the clatter of tack and the distant lowing of draft horses. “You’ve ridden hard for a boy who’s never held a real sword. I hope your spine is as sturdy as your horse. I don’t coddle squires. I forge them.” He stepped forward, offering a calloused hand beneath Frederick’s shoulder to help him down. The sun had vanished, and the castle gates loomed like a sleeping beast behind them, waiting. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Moss and Maille" data-color="green"> The leather reins grew slack as Thunder stepped into the familiar rhythm of the stables, his breath pluming in the cool evening air. Frederick tied the knot with trembling fingers, the weight of the journey finally settling on his shoulders. Over the low stone wall, past beds of silver fern and damp ivy, a figure approached. Sir Roland moved with the quiet grace of a man who had spent decades in the saddle, his cloak dyed with forest greens and dust. He stopped a few paces away, his eyes sharp but not unkind. “I’ve watched your approach from the battlements, boy,” he said softly, his voice like wind through dry reeds. “You carry your father’s stubborn chin, even if your hands are still soft from parchment and plow.” He reached out, tapping the pommel of Frederick’s traveling sword. “Rest tonight. Tomorrow, the stone courtyard will teach you what the road could not.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Starlit Courtyard" data-color="blue"> Frederick tethered Thunder to the iron ring, the horse’s steady chewing a reassuring rhythm against the sudden silence of the courtyard. From beneath the vaulted arch of the eastern stables, Sir Roland emerged like a figure carved from dusk itself. His cape, stitched with threads of midnight blue, pooled around his boots as he closed the distance. The last pale light of day caught the polished steel of his pauldrons, turning them the color of a winter sky. “Frederick,” Roland acknowledged, his tone crisp, disciplined. “The king’s decree brought you here, but it is your own footsteps that will decide whether you belong. Welcome to the Order.” He clasped Frederick’s forearm in the traditional salute, his grip firm, unyielding. “Tonight, you sleep easy. Tomorrow, you learn what the oath demands.” </nc-section>