Run: 2026-04-27-01KQ77DH0G4PJ4MTY6RMHEYPA8

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Weight of Iron" data-color="red"> I reined Thunder in just as the iron-bound gates groaned open, the courtyard already thick with the smoke of evening cookfires and the clang of the armory. Near the arched entrance of the royal stables, a figure waited. Sir Roland stood like a monument forged in war, his plate armor scarred, dull, and utterly unadorned. He didn't smile as I approached. Instead, he stepped forward, his gauntleted hand resting heavily on the pommel of a notched broadsword. "You're late, boy," he rasped, his voice like grinding stones. "Dismount. Tend to your beast before you tend to your dreams. Knighthood isn't won on a saddle; it's earned in the muck, the sweat, and the silence between heartbeats." I swallowed hard, sliding from Thunder's back as the knight's piercing gaze measured my spine, my grip, my resolve. The Last Dragon's legacy would not be handed to me. It would be beaten into me. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: Whispers of the Old Wood" data-color="green"> Thunder’s hooves clattered against the cobblestones as I guided him toward the timber-framed stables, where ancient ivy clung to the beams like emerald veins. Waiting in the dappled shadow of the eaves was Sir Roland. He wore no gleaming steel, only a travel-stained tunic and a cloak the color of deep forest moss. His eyes, bright and unnervingly knowing, locked onto mine the moment I swung my leg over the saddle. "So, the wind finally brings you to us, Frederick," he said, his voice a low, comforting rumble that seemed to harmonize with the evening crickets. He reached out, not to me, but to press a calloused palm against Thunder’s velvet muzzle. "A fine creature. He’ll serve you well, provided you learn to listen before you command. Come. The dragons of old didn’t bow to brute force, and neither will this castle. Your training begins with patience, not the sword." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: Oaths at Twilight" data-color="blue"> I drew Thunder to a halt beneath the vaulted stone archway of the stables, where the air grew cool and carried the clean scent of sweet hay and polished leather. Sir Roland awaited me there, his silver cuirass catching the last sapphire hues of twilight. A crimson plume swept from his helm, which he tucked casually beneath one arm as I approached. "Well met, Squire Frederick," he announced, his voice clear and resonant, carrying the effortless authority of a man who had commanded battlefields and survived them. He offered a crisp, respectful nod—a gesture that startled me, for I expected to be treated as a mere country boy. "Your journey ends here, and your true path begins. Stable your mount, wash the road from your face, and meet me in the training yard at first light. The Order does not wait for the sun, and the blood of the Last Dragon certainly won't wait for you." </nc-section>