Run: 2026-09-02-01M1HGC6N0SJ2NA595CM9CXCJD

<nc-section data-title="A Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> I guided Thunder toward the warmth and earthy scent of the courtyard stables, sliding down from the saddle with stiff legs. Before my boots had fully settled into the cobblestones, heavy footsteps sounded against the stone. Stepping out from beneath the timber awning was Sir Roland. He was a towering figure clad in battle-worn chainmail, his gray-streaked beard framing a face carved with scars from old campaigns. He crossed his thick arms, his piercing eyes raking over me and my mount without an ounce of warmth. "So, you're the new blood they sent me," Roland said, his voice grating like grinding millstones. "You look softer than spring butter, lad. Hand your reins to the stable hands and stand tall. Your trials begin before the sunrise, and I don't tolerate weak knees in my yard." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="A Warm Reception" data-color="green"> As Thunder trotted into the stable yard, the heavy wooden doors creaked open to reveal a broad-shouldered knight tending to a massive roan warhorse. Upon noticing me, Sir Roland set down his curry comb, a hearty grin splitting his weathered face. "Welcome, Frederick!" he called out, his booming voice cutting through the evening chill. He strode over and extended a calloused hand, grasping my forearm in a firm warrior's greeting. "I received word from the King's road only an hour ago. You've made fine time." He glanced appreciatively at Thunder, stroking the stallion's neck with gentle familiarity. "A magnificent beast. Get him watered and brushed down, lad. Then join me in the mess hall—a hot bowl of stew and a horn of ale await before we speak of your training." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Shadows and Steel" data-color="blue"> The lanterns along the stable eaves flickered faintly in the dusk, casting long, wavering shadows across the hay-strewn yard. As I dismounted, a figure detached itself from the gloom near the stalls, moving with an eerie, quiet grace despite the plate armor he wore. Sir Roland watched me in silence for a long moment, the hilt of a broadsword resting loosely beneath his gloved hand. When he finally spoke, his tone was low, weighted with solemn gravity. "Frederick," he murmured, his gaze shifting past me toward the distant mountains where the last dragon was rumored to dwell. "You arrive in an hour of quiet dread. The whispers on the wind grow louder each night, and the castle needs more than mere swordsmen—it needs men of unwavering spirit. Come. We have much to prepare, and far less time than the realm believes." </nc-section>