Run: 2026-09-03-01M1KR92VAC9D85HM8ZV6MBJ6T

<nc-section data-title="Meeting Sir Roland - A Trial of Steel" data-color="red"> As I dismounted near the bustling stables, the heavy thud of iron-shod boots echoed across the cobblestones. Emerging from the shadows of the tack room stood Sir Roland. He was a towering figure, his face etched with the scars of a dozen forgotten skirmishes. With arms crossed over a battered breastplate, he sized me up with a piercing, unblinking glare. "So, the boy has finally arrived," Roland said, his voice grating like stone against stone. "You ride well enough, lad, but Thunder did all the work. Out here, nobility means nothing if your arm cannot hold a shield. Let’s see if you have the spine to survive the week." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Meeting Sir Roland - A Warm Welcome" data-color="green"> I swung down from the saddle, easing Thunder toward the stable entrance where the sweet smell of dry hay and leather hung thick in the air. A hearty laugh broke through the clatter of the courtyard, and out stepped Sir Roland, wiping axle grease from his weathered hands with a linen rag. A broad, easy grin creased his bearded face as he approached. "Welcome to Ironspire, Frederick!" Sir Roland boomed, clapping a heavy, calloused hand against my shoulder. "Thunder looks in fine spirits, and you’ve got color in your cheeks. Come, get your mount settled and take a breath. Tomorrow the real sweat begins, but tonight, there’s hot stew and a dry bed waiting for you." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Meeting Sir Roland - Shadows and Portents" data-color="blue"> The stable lanterns flickered against the gathering twilight as I led Thunder to the hitching post. A quiet figure stepped out from the archway, cloaked in charcoal wool that concealed all but the glimmer of a longsword's pommel. It was Sir Roland, gazing not at me, but toward the jagged mountain peaks looming beyond the castle battlements. "You chose an ill-omened season to take your vows, squire," Roland murmured, his tone solemn and low. He turned, his steel-gray eyes clouded with a weary vigilance. "The fires in the north burn brighter with each passing night. Tend to your horse swiftly, Frederick. We must speak of what stirs in the dark before the lords gather for feast." </nc-section>