Run: 2026-05-22-01KS86MMBQ5JACVYFW6ZJGV6F8

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Scarred Veteran" data-color="red"> I pulled back on Thunder's reins, bringing my sweating beast to a halt near the sprawling oak doors of the stables. Before I could even swing my leg over the saddle, a shadow detached itself from the gloom of the courtyard. Sir Roland, the castle's master of arms, stepped into the dying light. He was a mountain of a man, his face a tapestry of old scars and hard decisions, his armor clinking with a heavy, menacing cadence. "You're late, boy," he rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "The Last Dragon won't wait for a squire who can't tell time from the sun. Dismount, draw your wooden sword, and prepare to bleed. Your training begins this very second." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Gentle Mentor" data-color="green"> Thunder snorted in relief as we entered the cool, hay-scented air of the stables. I patted his neck, sliding down to the cobblestones just as a tall figure emerged from the shadows of the tack room. Sir Roland wiped his hands on a linen cloth, his emerald-green cloak sweeping the straw-covered floor. Unlike the fearsome warriors of legend, his eyes held a warm, crinkling amusement as he looked me over. "Easy now, Thunder is a fine beast, but he needs a good brushing after that ride," Sir Roland said, offering a calloused but gentle hand to help me with the saddlebags. "Welcome to the keep, Frederick. I've been expecting you. Let's get your horse settled and grab a warm meal before we speak of dragons and destiny." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: Whispers of the Past" data-color="blue"> The stables were unnervingly quiet, save for the soft nickering of resting destriers and the distant, echoing rush of the moat. I guided Thunder into an empty stall, the cool blue twilight spilling through the high, narrow windows. Sir Roland stood at the far end of the aisle, his gauntleted fingers gently tracing the faded, scaled carvings etched into the ancient stone wall. He didn't turn as my boots scuffed the floor. "They say the great wyrms used to roost in these very towers, before the skies burned and the culling began," he murmured, his voice carrying the melancholic weight of a forgotten age. Finally, he turned, his pale, icy eyes locking onto mine. "You have your father's look, Frederick. Let us pray to the old gods you have his courage, too." </nc-section>