Run: 2026-09-02-01M1HHHEJ05RFAJ8JG0CZHGQ58

<nc-section data-title="A Trial by Steel" data-color="red"> As Thunder came to a halt by the weathered timber of the stables, a towering figure stepped out from the shadows of the eaves. Sir Roland was clad in battered plate that bore the scars of a dozen skirmishes, his face hardened by years beneath the midday sun. He didn’t offer a smile, only a sharp, appraising glance that traveled from the dust on Frederick’s boots to the nervous set of his jaw. "Dismount, boy," Roland barked, his voice gravelly and unforgiving as grinding millstones. "If you ride like a sack of grain, you'll fight like one, too. Let's see if you can strip that saddle before the sun dips below the horizon, or if the dragons will find an easy meal in you." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="A Veteran's Grace" data-color="green"> Frederick guided Thunder toward the warmth of the lantern-lit stables, where the rich scent of sweet hay and polished tack hung thick in the evening air. Beside the water trough stood Sir Roland, a veteran knight whose graying beard and crow's-feet softened an otherwise imposing silhouette. Seeing Frederick, he set aside a wooden currycomb and wiped his weathered hands on a clean cloth. "Easy now, lad," Roland said, his voice deep and rumbling with an unexpected gentleness. He reached out to pat Thunder's lathered neck with practiced ease before clasping Frederick's forearm in greeting. "You’ve had a long ride from the valley. Tend to your mount first—a true knight serves his beast before himself. Once he’s bedded down, there’s hot stew and a dry bunk waiting for you." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Whispers of the Wyrm" data-color="blue"> The courtyard quieted as Frederick drew rein beside the western stables, the wind whistling mournfully through the stone archways. Waiting there was Sir Roland, leaning casually against a carved hitching post, his cloak of deep azure billowing slightly in the draft. Roland's piercing gray eyes caught Frederick's gaze, measuring not just the young man's stature, but the quiet courage buried beneath his fatigue. "Welcome to the keep, Frederick," Roland murmured, stepping forward with silent, fluid grace. "The road from the lowlands is treacherous these days, yet you made it before nightfall. Good. The roosts high in the Crags grow restless, and we will have little time for pleasantries once the skies darken. Come, let us see what kind of spirit you bring to our vigil." </nc-section>