Run: 2026-09-02-01M1HHDM1425XA42K65HBXR1R7

<nc-section data-title="The Veteran's Scrutiny" data-color="red"> As I guided Thunder past the iron portcullis toward the courtyard stables, a towering figure stepped out from the shadow of the stone arches. Sir Roland stood clad in hammered steel, his cloak frayed at the hem and a jagged scar cutting across his weathered jaw. He didn't offer a hand in welcome; instead, his sharp, flinty eyes swept over my mount, assessing the lather on Thunder's flanks before settling upon me with unyielding weight. "Late, boy," Roland said, his voice grating like grinding millstones. "A true knight cares for his beast before his pride. Dismount, strip the tack, and rub down the stallion. We will see if your hands are as eager for honest labor as your head is filled with heroic songs." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="A Warm Welcome" data-color="green"> The scent of cedar shavings and sweet dry hay spilled into the courtyard as I drew Thunder to a halt before the royal stables. A robust man with a hearty beard and eyes crinkled with laughter stepped forward, casually resting a massive hand against my stallion's neck. Thunder, usually skittish around strangers, immediately calmed under the gentle touch. "Welcome to Dunhaven, lad," Sir Roland boomed, offering me an open, calloused palm. "Frederick, isn't it? Your father spoke of your arrival in his letters, though he failed to mention you rode such a magnificent beast. Come down from that saddle—a hot bowl of stew and a bed of dry straw await both you and your mount." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Shadows of the Past" data-color="blue"> The dusk air grew strangely cold as I neared the timbered stable doors. Sitting atop an upturned grain barrel was Sir Roland, meticulously running a whetstone down the edge of an ancient broadsword. The rhythmic rasping stopped the moment Thunder’s hooves echoed against the cobblestones. Roland looked up, but his gaze drifted past me first, scanning the twilight skies as if watching for silhouettes against the fading clouds. "You picked a dark hour to take up the shield, Frederick," Roland spoke quietly, sheathing the steel with a dull click. He rose, the silver dragon crest upon his breastplate glinting faintly in the dying light. "The realm is not what it once was, and squires are no longer trained for mere tourneys. Tend your horse, boy. Tomorrow, the true vigilance begins." </nc-section>