Run: 2026-09-23-01M37NSHYMYSKYA137H1NMSRYS

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight at the Stables" data-color="red"> The gates groaned open before me, and I guided Thunder across the cobbled courtyard toward the stables. The smell of hay and leather hung in the air, mingled with smoke from the smithy. Stable boys darted between the stalls, but none of them paid me any mind. I had barely swung down from the saddle when a shadow fell across me. "You're late." I turned to find a man leaning against the stable door, his arms folded across a broad chest. He was older than I had imagined, perhaps fifty winters, with iron-gray hair cropped close to his skull and a scar that ran from his left temple to the corner of his jaw. His tunic bore the crest of the silver hawk. "Sir Roland?" I asked, my voice cracking more than I would have liked. "The same." He pushed himself off the door and circled Thunder slowly, running a calloused hand along the stallion's flank. "Fine animal. Better than his rider, I'd wager. You were expected by midday." "The bridge at Ashford was washed out, my lord. I had to ride around by the—" "A knight doesn't make excuses, boy. He makes up the time." Sir Roland stopped in front of me and looked me over the way a merchant inspects a bolt of cloth he suspects is flawed. "Your father tells me you're clever. Clever won't keep a blade from your throat." I swallowed hard and held his gaze. It seemed the only thing to do. For a long moment he said nothing. Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth twitched. "Well. At least you don't look away. That's a start." He tossed me a curry comb. "See to your horse yourself. No stable boy will do it for you here. Then find me in the training yard at first light. Not a moment after." He strode off across the courtyard without another word, leaving me with the comb in my hand and the distinct feeling that I had just survived my first test. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Warm Welcome" data-color="green"> The guards waved me through the gates with hardly a glance, and I followed the clatter of hooves and the smell of fresh straw to the stables along the eastern wall. Lanterns were being lit one by one, their golden light spilling across the yard. "Ho there! You must be young Frederick!" A booming voice rang out, and a man came striding toward me with his arms flung wide. He was tall and barrel-chested, with a thick red beard streaked with gray and cheeks flushed from either the cold or the ale, perhaps both. A great sword hung at his hip, but he carried himself more like a tavern keeper than a warrior. "I am, sir," I said, dismounting quickly and attempting a bow. It came out rather clumsy. "None of that bowing nonsense. Save it for the king." He clapped me on the shoulder so hard I nearly stumbled into Thunder. "Sir Roland of Harrowmere, at your service. Or rather, you at mine, starting tomorrow." He laughed heartily at his own joke. Thunder snorted and stamped, and Sir Roland turned his attention to the horse with genuine delight. "Now here's a beauty! Look at the chest on him. Built for a charge, this one." He held out his palm, and to my astonishment, Thunder, who had bitten three grooms back home, lowered his head and nuzzled it. "He doesn't usually take to strangers," I said. "Horses know who they can trust, lad. Better judges of character than most men." He winked. "Remember that. It'll serve you well." He took Thunder's reins and led him into a stall himself, calling for oats and fresh water. "You've had a long ride. Come, the kitchens will have something hot, and old Marta makes a mutton stew that'll put iron in your bones. Training begins soon enough. Tonight, you eat." As I followed him toward the great hall, the knot that had sat in my stomach for three days of travel began, at last, to loosen. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Watcher in the Dusk" data-color="blue"> By the time I reached the stables, the sun had slipped behind the western hills, and the courtyard had fallen into a hush of long blue shadows. Thunder grew restless as we approached, tossing his head and pulling against the reins. "Easy," I murmured, stroking his neck. "Easy, boy." "He smells it," said a quiet voice from the darkness of the stable doorway. I startled. A man stepped out into the fading light. He was lean and weathered, dressed in a plain gray cloak rather than the finery I had expected of a knight. Only the silver hawk pinned at his collar marked his rank. His eyes, pale and sharp, fixed not on me but on the northern sky. "Smells what, sir?" "Ash." He finally looked at me. "The wind's been coming down from the mountains for three days now. The horses haven't slept properly since." He paused. "You're Frederick. I am Roland. Your father and I served together, a long time ago." "He spoke of you often, Sir Roland," I said, which was true, though my father never spoke of what they had done together, only that Roland had saved his life more than once. Sir Roland nodded slowly, as though he had expected as much. He reached out and laid a steady hand on Thunder's muzzle, and the stallion calmed at once. "They'll tell you in the great hall that the old tales are only tales," he said softly. "That the last of the great wyrms died before your grandfather was born." He glanced once more toward the mountains, where a faint orange glow flickered against the clouds, too steady to be lightning, too far to be a fire. "Don't believe everything you hear in the great hall, boy." Before I could ask what he meant, he handed me Thunder's reins and turned away. "Stable your horse. Get some rest. You'll need it." His voice drifted back to me through the gathering dark. "Something is waking." </nc-section>