Run: 2026-09-23-01M37P7D6T3XZ87MER67ZP85K8

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> I slowed Thunder to a trot as we passed beneath the portcullis, his hooves ringing against the cobblestones of the outer bailey. The smell of hay and woodsmoke hung thick in the air. A stable boy, no older than ten, darted out to take the reins, but before I could dismount, a voice cut through the evening like a blade. "You're late." I turned in the saddle. A man stood in the shadow of the stable doors, broad-shouldered and grey at the temples, his arms folded across a leather jerkin scarred by years of training. A longsword hung at his hip, its pommel worn smooth by a lifetime of use. I knew him at once from the stories my father had told by the hearth. Sir Roland of Ashford, the Shield of the Northern March. I swung down from Thunder so quickly that I nearly lost my footing. "Forgive me, my lord. The river road was flooded near Millbrook, and I had to..." "Did I ask for your excuses?" Sir Roland stepped into the fading light. His eyes were the pale blue of winter ice, and they took my measure from boots to brow in a single glance. "A knight does not explain himself. He arrives when he is expected, or he arrives prepared to accept the consequences." "Yes, my lord." He circled Thunder slowly, running a calloused hand along the stallion's flank. Thunder, who had bitten two grooms back home, stood perfectly still beneath his touch. "A fine animal," Sir Roland said at last. "Better than you deserve, I suspect. We shall see." He turned back to me. "You will muck out these stables before you sleep tonight. All of them. At dawn, you will meet me in the yard. Do not be late a second time, Frederick." He walked away without waiting for a reply, his cloak sweeping behind him. The stable boy gave me a sympathetic look and handed me a pitchfork. I stared at the long row of stalls stretching into the darkness, and for the first time since leaving home, I wondered whether I had made a terrible mistake. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: An Unexpected Friend" data-color="green"> The guards waved me through the gates with barely a glance, and I followed the smell of horses to the stables tucked against the eastern wall. Thunder snorted happily, sensing oats and rest after three long days on the road. I had just dismounted when a bucket of water came flying out of the nearest stall and drenched me from head to toe. "Oh, blast it all!" A man emerged from the stall, holding the empty bucket and looking thoroughly apologetic. He was tall and sturdy, with a thick brown beard, laughing eyes, and a mud-splattered tunic that bore, beneath the grime, the embroidered crest of a silver oak. "I was aiming for the drain. You must be the new squire." I wiped the water from my eyes, too stunned to be angry. "Frederick, sir. Frederick of Westmere." "Roland," he said, extending a hand. Then, seeing my blank expression, he added, "Sir Roland, if we must be formal. Though I'd rather not be, since I've just baptized you." My jaw dropped. This was Sir Roland? The knight who had held the Pass of Kerrow against a hundred raiders? The man whose name was sung in taverns from here to the southern sea? I had imagined someone grim and towering, clad in gleaming steel. Not a man scrubbing out horse stalls with his sleeves rolled up. He seemed to read my thoughts and chuckled. "Disappointed? Most are. The songs leave out the part where knights clean up after their own horses." He patted Thunder's neck, and the stallion nuzzled his shoulder affectionately. "Here's your first lesson, lad. A man who won't care for his horse doesn't deserve to ride into battle on it. The horse remembers." "I'll remember too, sir." "Good." He tossed me a dry cloth from a peg on the wall. "Now dry yourself off before you catch your death. Supper's in the great hall, and the cook makes a venison stew that could bring a dead man back to life. We'll talk about your training tomorrow." As I followed him across the courtyard, dripping and grinning like a fool, I decided that perhaps the songs had gotten Sir Roland wrong after all, and I was glad of it. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: Whispers in the Stable" data-color="blue"> By the time I reached the stables, the last of the sunlight had bled from the sky, leaving only the torches along the walls to push back the gathering dark. The courtyard was strangely quiet. No grooms came to meet me. No hounds barked. Only the soft shifting of horses in their stalls broke the silence. Thunder tossed his head and pulled against the reins, his ears flat against his skull. I had never seen him so uneasy. "Easy, boy," I murmured, stroking his neck. "Easy." "He senses it," said a voice behind me. I spun around, my hand flying to the dagger at my belt. A knight stood near the hayloft ladder, so still that I had not noticed him. He wore a dark blue surcoat over his mail, and a thin scar ran from his left eyebrow down to his jaw. His face was calm, but his eyes were watchful, as though he were listening for something far away. "Senses what, sir?" I asked. "You're Frederick. The squire from Westmere." It was not a question. He stepped forward, and in the torchlight I saw that his gauntlets were blackened, as though scorched by fire. "I am Sir Roland. I will be overseeing your training." "An honor, my lord." I bowed, though my heart was still hammering. "Forgive me, but what does Thunder sense?" Sir Roland was silent for a long moment. Then he looked up, past the stable roof, toward the jagged peaks of the mountains that loomed black against the stars. "Three nights ago, the shepherds in the high valleys saw a shadow cross the moon. Yesterday, a flock of sheep was found burned to ash, with not a single blade of grass scorched around them." He lowered his gaze to meet mine. "The animals know before we do. They always have." A chill crept down my spine. "Surely you don't mean..." "I mean nothing yet," he said quietly. "But you did not come here in peaceful times, Frederick, whatever your father may have told you. Stable your horse. Get some rest. Your training begins tomorrow, and I fear we have less time than I would like." He strode off into the darkness, leaving me alone with Thunder, who stood trembling and stared toward the distant mountains as though something there was staring back. </nc-section>