Run: 2026-09-02-01M1H9Q5PCN2C1S6324R6JC6BP

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Iron Welcome" data-color="red"> Thunder’s hooves echoed against the cobbled courtyard before I could even dismount. Before my boots touched the stone, a figure detached himself from the shadowed archway of the royal stables. He was broad-shouldered and scarred, his plate armor polished to a dull bronze sheen that caught the dying embers of sunset. This was Sir Roland, the realm’s most seasoned knight, though his eyes held none of the warmth I had hoped for. “You ride like a man fleeing his own shadow, boy,” he grunted, taking my stirrup without invitation. His grip was iron, his assessment sharper. “Drop your pack, wash the road from your face, and stand ready. Dawn does not wait for squires who sleep past first bell.” The stable doors stood open behind him, spilling the scent of hot hay and dark leather into the cooling air. My training had truly begun. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: Roots in the Stone" data-color="green"> I slipped from the saddle just as the last amber light faded beneath the western battlements. A familiar clatter of iron boots on stone announced an arrival before I saw him. Leaning against a weathered hitching post near the stables stood Sir Roland, his once-bright surcoat long traded for a practical leather jerkin embroidered with ivy and oak leaves—the sigil of his house. He watched me with the quiet patience of an old forester surveying new saplings. “Thunder carries you well,” he observed, offering a calloused hand to help me down. His smile was faint but genuine. “But horses only half the equation. You’ve got the spirit of the highlands in your stride, Frederick. Let’s hope this castle’s stone doesn’t dampen it.” He gestured toward the cool, fragrant air drifting from the open mews, where lanterns were being lit for the night shift. “Come. We’ll have supper while I tell you what kind of oath you’re about to take.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Watchman’s Oath" data-color="blue"> Moonlight bled across the ramparts as I led Thunder toward the stone stalls. The day’s heat still radiated through the cobblestones, but a crisp evening wind carried the distant chime of temple bells. Near the tack room, a lone figure awaited me—Sir Roland. His mail shirt gleamed like poured silver under the rising moon, and a heavy cloak of indigo wool draped over his shoulders. He did not speak at once. Instead, his gaze traveled over me, measuring bone and bearing, until finally his voice cut through the quiet like a drawn blade. “Frederick of Oakhaven. I expected you sooner, or perhaps later. Time bends strangely when destiny draws near.” He stepped forward, placing a gauntleted hand over his heart. “Welcome to the keep. Leave your wonder at the gate tomorrow; tonight, we prepare you for the weight of steel, statute, and silence.” Behind him, the stables breathed warmly, alive with snorting beasts and crackling hearths—a world away from the secrets already waiting within the castle walls. </nc-section>