Run: 2026-09-02-01M1HJ4RCVYQ4G60VHFATT4ZBM

<nc-section data-title="The Greeting at the Gate" data-color="red"> The stable hand guided Thunder toward the stalls as I climbed down, my legs stiff from the long ride. Dust clung to my cloak, and the smell of hay and warm horseflesh filled the evening air. Before I could reach for my saddlebag, a broad-shouldered man stepped from the shadows of the stable. He wore battered armor marked with the crest of the castle, and his sword hung easily at his hip. His face was lined by wind and war, but his eyes were sharp and steady. “You must be Frederick,” he said, his voice rough but not unkind. “I am Sir Roland.” He extended a hand, and for a moment I forgot to take it, too surprised to find the great knight waiting for a boy like me. Then I clasped his forearm like I had seen squires do, nearly stumbling in my haste. “Welcome to Caerdrath,” Sir Roland said. “You’re late.” “I was held up at the ford,” I replied. He nodded as if he had already heard it and moved past me to Thunder’s stall. The knight ran one gauntleted hand along the horse’s neck, studying him. “Fine beast,” Sir Roland said. “He’ll serve you well if you remember who is in command.” I followed him into the stable yard. The castle loomed above us, its towers black against the fading sky. Sir Roland stopped beside a post where a dozen lanterns burned low. “Your training begins at dawn,” he said. “You will learn sword, shield, horsemanship, and duty. Above all, you will learn to think before you act. A squire who cannot think is a danger to himself and his knight.” I tried to stand taller, though the ride had beaten the posture out of me. “I understand.” “No,” Sir Roland said, turning to face me. “You will.” Then he gave me a look that might have been approval and pointed down the cobbled lane toward the great hall. “Go. Eat, rest, and speak to Master Orin tomorrow. He keeps the household’s books and your first schedule.” I bowed stiffly and walked away, the stones cold through the thin soles of my boots. Behind me, Sir Roland’s voice carried once more. “Frederick.” I turned. He was watching me with unreadable eyes. “If you are half as stubborn as the horse, you may live long enough to become a knight.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Sir Roland’s Inspection" data-color="green"> When we reached the stables, a knight in a scarred steel cuirass was already waiting. He stood with one foot on a mounting block, arms folded, watching as I dismounted. His face was young enough to be startling, though his beard was trimmed close and his eyes were hard with long experience. “Frederick,” he said. “Yes, my lord?” He stepped down and stopped before me. He was not tall, but he carried himself as though he owned every stone around him. “Sir Roland,” I guessed, remembering the letters Master Orin had shown me. The knight’s mouth twitched. “That’s the man who will decide whether you are fit to serve.” He glanced at Thunder and then at the scabbard strapped across my back. “And you are not fit.” My ears burned. “I’ve only just arrived, sir.” “Then begin again.” Sir Roland held out his hand. “Your sword.” I hesitated, then unslung the plain steel sword my father had given me. Sir Roland drew it from the scabbard and examined it as though reading a message written in metal. The blade trembled under his grip. “Good steel,” he said. “Poor balance.” He handed it back. “You hold it too near the hilt. You’re trying to control it like a tool instead of trusting its weight.” “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” I said before I could stop myself. Sir Roland studied me. “In a fight, you will.” He led me toward the training yard behind the stables. The evening air smelled of horses, sweat, and damp straw. Other squires were there, some polishing armor, some lifting stones, one trying to make himself look busy while stealing glances at the castle. Sir Roland picked up a wooden practice sword and threw it to me. “Show me your stance.” I settled my feet the way my father had taught me, sword raised, left hand forward, chin tucked. Sir Roland watched for a long moment. “Better than I expected,” he said. “Worse than you should allow.” Before I could reply, he struck. His blow came so fast I barely caught it on the wooden blade. The impact jarred my arm. Before I could recover, he swept his foot behind my ankle and sent me sprawling into the dust. A few squires laughed. Sir Roland pointed at me. “On your feet. Again.” I rose, cheeks hot, and raised the practice sword. This time I was slower, more careful, and he hit me on the shoulder before I even knew he had moved. “Again,” he said. Each time he knocked me down, his voice remained calm. At the third fall, I growled. At the fourth, my hands shook. At the fifth, I stopped. Sir Roland tilted his head. “Tired already?” I looked at the sword in my hands, then at the ground beneath me. “No, sir.” He gave a single nod, as if that answer mattered more than the fall. “Good. A squire will be tired before he is wise.” He took the wooden sword from me. “Come to me tomorrow. Bring your own blade, and your willingness to look foolish. You’ll need it.” As he turned and walked into the stable shadows, I realized I was smiling for the first time since I left home. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Knight at the Water Trough" data-color="blue"> At the stables, a man stood by the water trough, washing blood and dust from his hands. He had removed his helmet, and the moonlight caught the white hair at his temples. A scar ran from his left ear to his jaw, pale as moonlight. When I approached, he did not look at me immediately. Instead, he rinsed a cloth and used it to clean Thunder’s legs. “Be gentle with him,” the man said. “He’s had a long ride.” “I didn’t know—” “You should know your horse,” the man said at last. He turned, and I saw a knight’s bearing in the way he stood, though he was dressed in simple traveling clothes over his armor. “Frederick of Ashvale.” “Yes, sir.” He nodded. “I am Sir Roland. I sent the letter inviting you.” My stomach dropped. I had thought the invitation came from the castle’s steward, not a knight himself. I bowed, nearly striking my head on a saddle left on the rail. “Careful,” Sir Roland said, catching my arm before I toppled. “Dignity is expensive in these halls.” I straightened my cloak and tried to meet his gaze. “My apologies, sir.” “No need.” He turned back to Thunder and checked the horse’s hooves. “He carried you well.” “Better than I carried myself.” Sir Roland smiled faintly. That was worse than a frown. It made him look young, but it also made me wonder what he had seen in the world before he came to this castle. “Tell me,” he said, “why did you come?” The question caught me off guard. “Because my father served the old king.” “Your father is dead,” Sir Roland said quietly. “I sent the letter because I knew him. I sent it because I hoped the boy who watched him die would find someone worthy of protecting.” The stable lights flickered. The horses stamped and snorted, oblivious to the weight of the words. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” I said, though I did not know what trouble I had caused. Sir Roland dried his hands and finally looked at me fully. “Trouble will find you, Frederick. It always does. My duty is to teach you not to run when it comes.” He stepped aside and gestured toward the castle courtyard. “Go in. Find my squire. Tell him you’re here. Then eat something, because if you faint during tomorrow’s lesson, you will embarrass me in front of the court.” I hesitated. “Will you be there?” His expression became unreadable again. “Where else would I be?” He returned to Thunder’s side and spoke softly to the horse as if I had already gone. I stood for a moment, seeing the knight’s shoulders under the lantern light, then turned toward the castle. The gates opened before me, and beyond them I felt the first cold breath of a fate I had not yet understood.