Run: 2026-09-02-01M1HGFDY64K4TH0Y12KQMHJSD

<nc-section data-title="The Iron Welcome" data-color="red"> I pulled Thunder to a halt before the courtyard stables, the scent of fresh hay and oiled leather cutting through the evening chill. A hulking figure stepped out from the lantern-lit threshold, arms crossed over a scarred steel breastplate. Sir Roland looked as though he had been carved directly from the castle's granite walls. His hawkish eyes swept over my posture, lingering on the way my hands held the reins before settling on my face with unyielding scrutiny. "You sit high on that beast, boy, but squiredom will soon drag you into the mud," Roland rumbled, his voice gravel-rough. "Dismount. The journey was the easy part; your trial begins the moment your boots touch stone." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="A Warm Hearth in Cold Steel" data-color="green"> As Thunder's hooves clattered softly against the cobblestones near the stables, a hearty laugh broke the quiet of dusk. A broad-shouldered knight emerged, brushing straw from his leather doublet. Sir Roland’s gray-streaked beard framed a broad, easy grin, and though a weathered longsword hung at his hip, his blue eyes sparkled with genuine warmth. "Steady there, lad!" Roland called out, striding over to catch Thunder’s bridle with practiced ease, giving the stallion an appreciative pat on the neck. "Frederick, isn't it? Good horse flesh under you, and you made good time before nightfall. Come, let's see to your mount, and then we'll find you a bowl of hot stew. You'll need every ounce of strength for tomorrow." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Whispers of the Roaring Past" data-color="blue"> The shadows stretched long across the stable yard as twilight took the courtyard. Standing beneath the overhang was Sir Roland, motionless as a gargoyle. Instead of looking at me, his gaze was fixed toward the craggy northern peaks where the dusk clouds bruised purple and black. Only when Thunder snorted did the knight finally turn, his expression burdened by thoughts far heavier than his plate armor. "Frederick," Roland said quietly, his voice carrying an eerie resonance in the gathering gloom. He stepped forward, inspecting me not with judgment, but with a somber curiosity. "The elders said you had the blood for it. Tend to your mount quickly, squire. The shadows grow longer over the realm each passing moon, and there is little time left to teach you how to face what wakes in the mountains." </nc-section>