Run: 2026-07-25-01KYD6P1DH3AQSTF9NSMZW98SN

<nc-section data-title="The Greeting at the Stables - Austere" data-color="red"> I had just swung down from Thunder's back, my legs still trembling from the long ride, when a voice cut through the courtyard like a whetstone on steel. "You leave a horse standing sweated and saddled, boy, and I'll have you mucking stalls for a month before you ever touch a blade." The man by the stables was not what I had imagined a knight to be. Sir Roland was broad as a barrel, his beard iron-grey and close-cropped, his gambeson stained with horse sweat and old blood. No shining plate, only a dented pauldron strapped over leather. I fumbled with the girth, stammering. "Sir Roland! I — I'm Frederick, the new squire from—" "I know who you are. And I know that saddlecloth will rot that beast's back if you don't get it off him." He stepped forward, but not to help. He watched. "Well? Your master isn't here to do it for you." My face burned as I pulled the saddle free. Thunder snorted, nudging my shoulder. Sir Roland's stern expression flickered. "He likes you, at least. That's one good mark in your favor. Get him watered and brushed, Frederick of Lowerford. Then come find me. Training starts before dawn, and I don't suffer late risers or soft hands." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Greeting at the Stables - Welcoming" data-color="green"> The stables smelled of hay and warm horse and leather oil — a good smell, an honest smell after days on the road. I was leading Thunder toward an empty stall, whispering apologies for the long final gallop, when a laugh rolled out from the shadows within. "There's a lad who knows how to ride, though his horse might argue about the pace!" A knight emerged, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms corded and freckled from the sun, carrying two wooden buckets of water that sloshed with each step. He set them down and grinned at me. His hair was sandy and thinning, his nose crooked from a break long healed. "You must be Frederick. I'm Roland. Sir Roland, if you're being formal, but just Roland when there's work to be done." "Sir Roland," I said quickly, bowing so fast I nearly dropped Thunder's reins. He waved it off and offered a calloused hand. "None of that. Come, help me with this. Your Thunder here looks like he could drink the well dry." Together we watered the stallion, and Roland ran an expert hand down Thunder's leg, checking his shoes, clucking his tongue. "Fine animal. Fine animal indeed. You raised him?" "My father and I—" I began, and to my surprise, Roland listened. He listened as if my small story mattered, nodding as I rubbed Thunder down. "Good," he said at last. "You'll stable with the other squires, but you'll be training under me. Rest tonight. Tomorrow, we see what your hands can do besides holding reins." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Greeting at the Stables - Omen" data-color="blue"> Dusk had deepened by the time I reached the stables. The courtyard torches had been lit, and their light barely reached the stable's mouth, where mist gathered low. A figure was waiting there, perfectly still, one hand resting on the post. He wore no surcoat, only dark mail that caught the blue of twilight. His hair was black, streaked with white, though his face was younger than I expected. "Frederick," he said, before I could speak. His voice was quiet. I stopped short, Thunder's hooves muffled on the straw. "Sir Roland?" He stepped into the lantern light. His eyes went first not to me, but to my horse — to Thunder's eyes, to the strange, almost silver scar on his flank that had been there since he was foaled. "So it's true," he murmured. "A black stallion came with the new squire. The stablemaster said you rode in like a storm front." He finally looked at me, and his gaze was heavy, searching. "Do you know the old stories, Frederick? That dragons once roosted in the mountains above this castle, and that before a dragon returns, a horse the color of midnight will come to its gates?" A chill traced my spine despite the warm evening. "It's just a horse, sir." Sir Roland held my gaze a moment longer, then smiled, but it was a tired smile. "Of course it is. Forgive an old knight his fancies. Come. Let us see to your midnight horse. There is much to discuss in the morning, young squire — about why you were really sent here." </nc-section>