Run: 2026-05-10-01KR8VHTEXZJB9C6QNS25CV6SX

<nc-section data-title="The Stable Master’s Appraisal" data-color="red"> As I dismounted, the heavy thud of boots crunching on gravel echoed through the courtyard. Sir Roland emerged from the shadows of the stables, his armor stained with the grime of a long patrol. He looked me up and down, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "You're late, boy," he spat, his hand resting menacingly on the pommel of his broadsword. "And that beast you ride is too pampered for the hardships that lie ahead. If you intend to survive the lessons of this castle, you’ll start by mucking the stalls until your hands bleed." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="A Mentor’s Welcome" data-color="green"> I had barely untethered the saddlebags when a figure stepped forth from the stable’s gloom, radiating an aura of quiet authority. Sir Roland, tall and silver-haired, offered a nod of weary respect. "Frederick, I presume?" His voice was like grinding stone, yet his expression lacked the cruelty I had feared. He reached out to pat Thunder’s flank with a calloused hand. "Travel is never easy for a young lad, but you’ve arrived in one piece. We have much work to do before the moon reaches its zenith—the dragons do not wait for the tardy." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Weight of Expectation" data-color="blue"> The air near the stables smelled of hay and dry, metallic heat. Sir Roland didn't greet me with words, but with a sharp whistle that made Thunder prick his ears. He stood polished and imposing, his crimson mantle swaying in the evening breeze. "You hold the reins with a nervous grip, squire," Sir Roland noted, stepping into the dim light. "The legends tell of dragons that burn cities to ash, a threat that requires a grip of iron. If you truly wish to be a knight of this order, you will learn to master your fear before you even think to master a blade." </nc-section>