Run: 2026-09-02-01M1HH4DHEJ7A376YH5Y6EPEZG

<nc-section data-title="A Veteran's Trial" data-color="red"> I pulled Thunder to a halt before the weathered timber of the courtyard stables, my muscles aching from the long ride. Before I could even swing my leg over the saddle, a heavy footstep crunched against the gravel. Emerging from the shadows of the stall was Sir Roland. He looked more like a mountain carved from iron than a flesh-and-blood knight; his tabard was scarred from blade-nicks, and his graying beard bristled beneath a steely glare. He didn't offer a hand, nor a smile. He simply crossed his massive arms, running a critical eye over the mud clinging to Thunder’s flanks and the slouch in my tired shoulders. "Late, boy," Roland grunted, his voice like grinding stones. "A proper knight’s mount arrives brushed and breathing easy, not gasping at dusk. Rub Thunder down, fetch water, and don't think of eating until your beast is tended. Your real training begins when your hands are blistered." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="A Warm Hearth" data-color="green"> As Thunder trotted into the warm, hay-scented shelter of the stable yard, the heavy oak doors groaned open. A hearty laugh cut through the evening chill, echoing off the high stone rafters. "Ho there, lad! If that isn't old Walter's boy, then my eyes have finally failed me!" Sir Roland stepped forward, wiping oil from a leather bracer with an old rag. Broad-shouldered and craggy-faced, his stern reputation melted the moment he beamed a wide, crooked grin. He caught Thunder’s bridle with practiced ease, gently patting the stallion’s lathered neck before clapping a heavy, calloused hand against my shoulder. "Look at you—near tall enough to reach the stirrups on a warhorse now," Roland chuckled, nodding toward the main keep. "Dismount, Frederick. The stablehands will see to your beast tonight. You look half-frozen, and the hearth fire in the hall has your name on it. Come, let’s see if your appetite matches your father’s." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Shadows on the Wind" data-color="blue"> The smell of brimstone and wet straw hung thick in the air as I guided Thunder toward the stalls. The courtyard was eerily quiet, the horses inside stamping nervously against their wooden partitions as if sensing something lurking beyond the mountains. Near the trough stood Sir Roland. He wasn't watching the road, but rather the twilight sky above the battlements, one scarred hand resting on the hilt of his broadsword. When he finally turned to acknowledge my arrival, his pale blue eyes were clouded with deep unease. "Frederick," he murmured softly, greeting me not as an eager recruit, but as a fellow soul trapped in an encroaching storm. "I prayed you wouldn't make it before the passes froze over. It would have been safer for you in the lowlands." He glanced up once more at the darkening clouds, where an ominous, distant silhouette drifted against the moon. "Tether your horse, boy. There will be no soft beds or gentle drills. The whispers from the crags were true... the Last Dragon has awakened." </nc-section>