Run: 2026-07-25-01KYD864751QS3P8T9HKK0AEMF

<nc-section data-title="The Knight at the Stables - Steel and Welcome" data-color="red"> The clatter of hooves on cobblestone had barely faded when a voice like grinding steel cut through the stable yard. "You'd be Frederick." Frederick scrambled down from Thunder, his squire's tunic still dusty from the road. Near the stable doors stood a mountain of a man in a dented breastplate, his beard more grey than brown, his left sleeve pinned where a hand should have been. Sir Roland. The local knight he'd heard stories about - the one who held the pass against raiders with only a broken lance. "You came late," Roland said, not unkindly, eyeing the stallion. "Fine horse. Shame you'll be too busy mucking out his shit to ride him for a while." He tossed Frederick a pitchfork, which the boy caught clumsily. "Stables first. Then swords. We do things properly here. Welcome to Castle Aerilon, lad." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Knight at the Stables - A Gentler Greeting" data-color="green"> Thunder was still steaming from the hard ride when Frederick led him toward the shade of the stables, and there, brushing down a dappled mare, was a knight without his helm. He was older than Frederick had imagined a knight would be, sun-lined and broad-shouldered, his surcoat faded but impeccably clean. "You must be Frederick," the knight said, smiling. "I'm Sir Roland. I was told to watch for a boy on a horse too good for him." Frederick flushed. "My lord—" Roland held up a hand and laughed. "Thunder is his name, yes? Lord Bryson wrote he'd have spirit. Let me look at you." He set down his brush and came closer, placing a firm, fatherly hand on Frederick's shoulder. His grip was strong, but his eyes were warm. "You've got the road on you. Come, let's get this fine fellow watered and get some food in you. Training can wait until morning. You've arrived, and that is what matters." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Knight at the Stables - Omen in the Straw" data-color="blue"> The stables were quiet. Too quiet. As Frederick pulled Thunder to a halt before the great wooden doors, the other horses shifted restlessly, whickering low. A man stepped from the gloom of the stable interior. Tall, cloaked in a dark blue mantle over chainmail, his face shadowed beneath close-cropped silver hair. "Step away from the beast," he said sharply. Frederick froze, hand still on the reins. "Are you Sir Roland?" "I am," the knight said, but he wasn't looking at Frederick. He was staring at Thunder, or rather, at Thunder's shadow, which seemed to stretch too long across the straw despite the setting sun. "Where did you get this horse, boy?" "From... from my village. He was a gift—" "No village breeds horses like this," Sir Roland whispered, finally meeting Frederick's eyes. His expression was no longer welcoming, but haunted. "The last time I saw eyes like his, we were burning the sky to kill a dragon. Tell me, Frederick, did anything follow you on the road?"