Run: 2026-09-23-01M36TH6DV2E33J5HFR5QKSG68

<nc-section data-title="The Knight of the Stables" data-color="red"> As Thunder slowed to a trot through the inner bailey, the smell of hay and horses greeted me before I even reached the stables. A towering figure leaned against the fence, arms crossed over a chest plate dented with the memory of countless battles. His graying beard was trimmed close to his jaw, and a long scar traced a pale line from his temple to his chin. "You must be the new boy," he said, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder. He pushed off the fence and strode toward me with the easy confidence of a man who had spent his life in the saddle. "I am Sir Roland. I've been training squires at this castle since before your father had the sense to send you here." He looked me up and down with keen, appraising eyes. "Can you ride, boy? And I don't mean sit on a horse while it does the work. I mean *ride*." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="A Gruff Welcome" data-color="green"> I swung down from Thunder's back and led him toward the stables, where a groom was already waiting with a bucket of water. Before I could hand over the reins, a heavy hand clapped me on the shoulder so hard I nearly stumbled. "So *you're* Frederick," boomed a voice behind me. I turned to find a broad-shouldered knight watching me with an amused grin. He wore a weathered surcoat bearing the silver hawk of our lord's house, and his scabbard was worn smooth at the grip from years of use. "Sir Roland," he said, offering a gauntleted hand. "I'll be teaching you which end of a sword to hold — assuming you don't already know." He laughed at his own jest, then turned serious. "The life of a squire is hard, boy. Harder than the songs tell it. But if you've got fire in you, we'll forge it into steel. Now come. Stow your things. Training begins at dawn." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Scarred Instructor" data-color="blue"> The stables were dim and warm, lit by a single lantern swinging from a beam. I was rubbing Thunder down when a shadow fell across the straw. A knight stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the fading sunset. He stepped forward, and the lantern light caught a face carved by weather and war — deep-set eyes the color of slate, and a scar that pulled one side of his mouth into a permanent half-smile. "Frederick of Thornfield," he said. It was not a question. "I am Sir Roland, master-at-arms of this keep." He picked up a brush and, without asking, began to work the tangles from Thunder's mane with surprising gentleness. "Your father wrote to me. He said you were stubborn, quick to anger, and too proud by half." Roland glanced at me sideways. "Good. Those are exactly the qualities that make a great knight — provided they are tempered with discipline. And *that*, boy, is what I intend to beat into you." </nc-section>