Run: 2026-09-02-01M1HATYZSVQVBX2CJJXRT0DW3

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Iron Welcome" data-color="red"> As Thunder’s hooves clattered against the flagstones, Frederick guided him into the shaded colonnade beside the royal stables. Before he could even loosen the cinch, a heavy gauntlet settled on his shoulder. “Steady, boy,” a voice grated, deep as a blacksmith’s bellows. Sir Roland stepped from the dusk, his lamellar armor bearing the dents of frontier wars and a dark red surcoat stained with river mud. His beard was trimmed close, his eyes sharp as whetstones. “Frederick, was it? The master’s papers came by raven this morning. You’ve got clean boots, a straight spine, and the kind of quiet that doesn’t run from trouble. That’s rare.” The knight gestured toward the tack room with a scarred thumb. “Unload your mare. Scrub the road from your face. Eat a proper meal. At dawn, we drill until your arms forget how to tremble. The realm doesn’t crown poets, squire—it forges men who can stand when the sky burns.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Steady Hand" data-color="green"> Frederick led Thunder into the cool, hay-dappled aisle of the stables, patting the stallion’s neck as the great beast chewed contentedly on dried oats. From behind a leaning rack of bridles, an older knight emerged, moving with the unhurried rhythm of a man who had learned to read the wind long before he learned to swing a blade. Sir Roland wore a simple wool jerkin, a silver pin shaped like a curled leaf fastened over his heart. “You treat your mount like family,” he observed, his voice carrying the rough warmth of autumn soil. “That tells me everything the paperwork couldn’t.” He offered a calloused hand, which Frederick shook firmly. “I am Roland of the Verdant Reach. In this court, steel matters, but so does patience. Your lessons will begin at first light, but tonight belongs to rest and routine. Learn the kitchen schedule, sweep the yards, listen to the veterans. There are older things sleeping in the high passes, and they wake to the scent of fear. We’ll train you to meet them with calm hands and a clear mind.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: Echoes of Ember" data-color="blue"> The violet hour settled over the courtyard as Frederick tied Thunder to the hitching post outside the stone stables. The air turned crisp, carrying the distant chime of temple bells and the faint, coppery scent of storm clouds. A figure detached himself from the arched doorway, boots silent on the wet cobblestones. Sir Roland approached, his plate mail polished to a frost-gray gleam, a pale blue standard embroidered on his pauldrons catching the last traces of twilight. He did not speak at once. Instead, he unclasped a worn leather satchel and handed it to Frederick. Inside lay a practice dagger and a parchment sealed with wax the color of crushed garnets. “Words fade,” Roland said quietly, his gaze drifting toward the northern mountains hidden beyond the tree line. “Legends endure. You’ve come to learn the sword, yes, but you’ll also learn the stories of the Last Dragon. Not as fairy tales—as warnings. Tonight, you map the armory. Tomorrow, you draw steel. By month’s end, we’ll see if you’re ready to hear what the stones remember.” </nc-section>