Run: 2026-09-23-01M37Q30SP1GNSC5JG86YMNJDP

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight of the Stables" data-color="red"> The guards waved me through the gates with barely a glance, and Thunder's hooves clattered against the cobblestones of the outer bailey. The smell of hay and horse sweat drifted from a long, low building to my left. I guided Thunder toward it, my legs aching from three days in the saddle. A man stood in the stable doorway, brushing down a grey mare with slow, practiced strokes. He was broad in the shoulders and grey at the temples, with a scar that ran from his left ear to the corner of his jaw. He wore no armor, only a plain linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, but I knew at once who he was. There was no mistaking the way he held himself, as though his spine had been forged rather than grown. "You'll be the Aldric boy," he said without looking up from the mare. I slid from Thunder's back and nearly stumbled as my boots hit the ground. "Frederick, sir. Frederick of Aldric. I've come to—" "I know why you've come." He set down the brush at last and turned to face me. His eyes were the pale blue of winter ice, and they moved over me the way a merchant might examine a bolt of cloth for flaws. "I am Sir Roland of Harrowmere. Your father wrote to me. He says you're clever with a book and useless with a sword." My face burned. "My father is not always generous, sir." To my surprise, Sir Roland laughed, a short, rough sound like stones knocking together. "No. He never was." He stepped forward and ran a hand along Thunder's neck. The stallion, who had bitten two stablehands back home, leaned into his touch like a pup. "But he's wrong about one thing. A boy who can keep a horse like this in such fine condition across three days of hard riding is not useless at anything. He simply hasn't been taught yet." He handed me the brush. "Your first lesson, squire. A knight tends his own mount before he tends his own hunger. Get to it. Supper is in an hour, and I'll not have you late on your first night." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: An Unexpected Welcome" data-color="green"> By the time I reached the stables, the last light had drained from the sky and torches flickered to life along the castle walls. I was fumbling with Thunder's girth strap, my fingers stiff with cold, when a voice boomed out of the darkness behind me. "Careful there, lad! Pull it like that and you'll have the saddle in the mud and your pride along with it." I spun around. A tall man strode toward me, his cloak thrown back to reveal a surcoat embroidered with a silver stag on a field of deep green. His beard was red and thick and ran wild across his cheeks, and he was grinning as though he'd just heard the finest joke in all the kingdom. "Sir Roland?" I guessed. "The very same!" He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to rattle my teeth. "And you're young Frederick, come to learn the noble arts of getting knocked flat and polishing other men's boots. Welcome, welcome!" He reached past me and loosened the strap with one easy tug. Thunder snorted his approval. "I'll confess I expected someone taller," Sir Roland said, looking me up and down. "Your uncle made you sound like a young giant in his letters." "My uncle exaggerates, sir." "Ha! That he does. Once told me he'd wrestled a bear. Turned out it was a very large dog." He lifted the saddle from Thunder's back as though it weighed nothing and slung it over a wooden rail. "Now then. You'll bunk in the loft above the armory with the other squires. There's three of them, and they'll try to frighten you with tales of the ghost in the east tower. Pay them no mind." "Is there a ghost in the east tower?" Sir Roland's grin faded, just for a moment, and something flickered behind his eyes. Then it was gone, and he was laughing again. "Come along, Frederick. Cook's made mutton stew, and if we're quick we might beat the others to the good bits." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Watcher in the Shadows" data-color="blue"> The stables were quiet when I led Thunder inside. Too quiet. The stalls on either side held horses of every color, but not one of them stirred or whickered at our arrival. They stood with their ears pinned back, their eyes fixed on something at the far end of the aisle. I followed their gaze. A figure sat on an upturned barrel beneath a hanging lantern, sharpening a longsword with a whetstone. Each stroke sang softly through the stillness. He was lean and dark-haired, dressed in black leather worn pale at the elbows and knees, and he did not look up as I approached. "The horses know," he said quietly. "They always know before we do." "Know what, sir?" He finally raised his head. His face was younger than I had expected, though lines of weariness were carved deep around his eyes. "That something is changing. That the old things are waking." He turned the blade in the lantern light, studying the edge. "I am Sir Roland. You must be Frederick." "Yes, sir. I've come to begin my training." "So you have." He rose and sheathed the sword in one fluid motion. As he stepped closer, I noticed a strange mark on the back of his hand, a twisting pattern of lines that almost resembled scales. He saw me looking and tugged his glove back over it. "They'll tell you in the great hall that you're here to learn swordplay and courtesy and how to sit a horse in a tournament. And you will learn those things." He placed a hand on Thunder's muzzle. For the first time since I'd entered, the stallion stopped trembling. "But that is not truly why you were sent to me, Frederick. Your grandfather knew that. I suspect your mother does too." He met my eyes, and his voice dropped to barely more than a whisper. "Tell me, boy. Have you been dreaming of fire?" The whetstone slipped from the barrel and clattered to the floor, and I realized, with a cold shock that ran all the way down to my boots, that I had. </nc-section>