Run: 2026-09-02-01M1HJAH3JSV4MSQTCBWVEF63B

<nc-section data-title="A Trial of Cold Iron" data-color="red"> I slid from the saddle, my boots striking the damp cobblestones just outside the stable arches. Thunder gave a low snort, shaking off the road dust, when the heavy thud of armored footsteps broke the evening quiet. Out from the shadows strode Sir Roland. He was a broad, weathered man scarred by years of border skirmishes, his mail shirt clinking with every measured step. He didn’t offer a smile, nor did he extend a hand. Instead, his steely gray eyes swept over Thunder’s lathered flanks before fixing directly on me. "You ride hard, boy, but knighthood is won by endurance, not speed," Roland said, his voice grating like millstones. He crossed his arms over his chest, blocking the stable door. "Unbridle your beast, rub him down, and carry your own pack. If you expect pampering within these walls, turn back now before the dragons smell your fear." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="A Hearth in the Yard" data-color="green"> Guiding Thunder through the arched entryway of the stables, I breathed in the comforting scent of sweet hay, oiled leather, and warm straw. Before I could reach for the reins to unbuckle the girth, a hearty laugh rumbled from one of the box stalls. "Ho there! Mind the straw, lad, the stableboys swept it only an hour past!" Sir Roland stepped into the lantern light, wiping a streak of saddle soap from his forearm onto a linen rag. A generous smile creased his sunburnt face, crinkling the corners of eyes that held genuine warmth. He reached out to pat Thunder’s muzzle, the stallion nuzzling him in immediate approval. "You must be Frederick," the knight said, extending a calloused, steady hand to clasp my forearm. "Your father sent word you were coming, though he forgot to mention you'd bring such a fine mount. Welcome to Dragon's Reach, lad. Come, let's get your horse bedded down, and I'll see to it you get a hot bowl of stew." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Shadows of the Past" data-color="blue"> The stables were unusually quiet, wrapped in the violet hush of dusk. As I led Thunder toward an empty stall, a figure emerged from the perimeter colonnade, staring not at me, but toward the jagged mountain peaks looming above the fortress. When Sir Roland finally turned, his gaze was piercing, burdened with a vigilance that sent a sudden chill down my spine. A tarnished silver medallion bearing the crest of a coiled dragon hung against his breastplate, catching the dying light. "Frederick," Roland murmured, speaking as if louder tones might disturb something slumbering in the hills. He stepped forward, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his longsword. "You arrive at a strange hour, young squire. The winds from the crags have turned bitter, and the roosts are restless. Tend to your mount quickly. Training starts tonight—the realm can no longer afford the luxury of patience." </nc-section>