Run: 2026-09-02-01M1H9GC5TTV0Z1T10S8AKRY4M

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Knight’s Welcome" data-color="red"> Before I could call for a groom, a heavy door swung open beside the stables, spilling lamplight across the yard. A figure stepped into the glow, his armor catching the dying fire of the sun. Steel plates shifted with a dull clang as he approached, the scent of hot metal and oiled leather rolling off him. “Frederick of Oakhaven,” he rumbled, halting a pace away. His face was a landscape of old battles, but his eyes burned with disciplined steel. He struck a gauntlet to his breastplate in a crisp salute. “I am Sir Roland, commander of the garrison and your master until you earn your own sword.” He jerked a thumb toward the darkened barn behind him. “Leave Thunder to the riders. You’ll sleep on a straw pallet, train till your bones ache, and learn that courage isn’t given—it’s forged. By dragon’s flame, this keep expects nothing less.” <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: Treads of Hay and Iron" data-color="green"> The stable doors groaned inward, releasing a cloud of warm straw and crushed mint into the evening air. From the shadows emerged a man whose worn leather apron was dusted with earth, a silver circlet pinned to his braided hair marking his station. Sir Roland pulled off his gloves as he crossed the cobblestones, his boots crunching softly. “You guide him well,” he said, nodding toward Thunder, who snorted and pawed the ground. “Most squiders rush their mounts and leave both broken.” He offered a calloused hand, his grip firm but careful. “Roland, at your service. You’ll bunk in the loft above the tack room, fetch water at first bell, and learn to read the wind before you ever touch a blade. The stone walls may guard us, but it’s the living earth that keeps us breathing. Tend to it, and you might just live long enough to see why your order was called here.” <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Star-Spurred Knight" data-color="blue"> As I looped Thunder’s reins to the iron ring, the steady rhythm of sabatons echoed over the courtyard stones. The stable archway parted, and out stepped a knight draped in a deep azure tabard stitched with silver moons and falling stars. He removed his helm slowly, revealing a lean, pale face marked by a thin scar that traced his jawline. “Sir Frederick,” he intoned, his voice calm as mountain glass. He bowed with precise grace. “I am Sir Roland, keeper of the outer wards and scholar of the Old Tongue. Your lineage reached the capital at last.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear over the distant wind. “Rest well tonight. Dawn brings drills, scrolls, and the weight of names spoken long ago. When the Last Dragon finally answers the sky’s call, we will need knights who remember what others have forgotten.”