Run: 2026-09-24-01M39X3A10G42EW72CE9M4X5JX

<nc-section data-title="The Stern Greeting" data-color="red"> Frederick dismounted Thunder just outside the stables, his legs stiff from the long ride. Before he could even loosen his saddle straps, a shadow fell over him. He turned to find a towering knight in gleaming plate armor, a crimson cloak billowing in the evening wind. The man's face was weathered, his jaw set like stone. "So," the knight rumbled, his voice like gravel grinding beneath a boot, "you're the new squire. Frederick, is it?" He did not wait for an answer. "I am Sir Roland, sworn shield of this keep. I hope you're not expecting soft beds and easy days. Knighthood is carved from sweat and blood, boy." Frederick swallowed hard, but he straightened his back and met the knight's steely gaze. "I'm ready to work, Sir Roland." A ghost of a smile flickered across the knight's lips—there and gone. "We shall see. Unsaddle your horse, then report to the armory. You have much to learn, and little time to learn it." With that, he turned on his heel and strode toward the castle, leaving Frederick to hurry after him. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="A Warm Welcome" data-color="green"> Frederick was patting Thunder's sweat-darkened neck when a hearty voice rang out across the stable yard. "Well met, young Frederick! Welcome to Castle Aldenmere!" Sir Roland emerged from behind a mountain of hay bales, wiping his broad hands on a stained rag. He was a portly man with a magnificent bushy beard streaked with grey, and his eyes crinkled with genuine warmth as he approached. "And who is this fine fellow?" he asked, giving Thunder an affectionate scratch behind the ears. The stallion nickered happily. "Thunder," Frederick replied, feeling the tension of the long journey melt away. "A noble name for a noble beast!" Sir Roland laughed, clapping Frederick on the shoulder with a hand like a friendly bear paw. "I trust the roads weren't too treacherous? No bandits gave you trouble, I hope?" "No, sir. The journey was uneventful." "Good, good! Uneventful is vastly underrated, take it from an old campaigner." He gestured toward the castle with a grin. "Come along, then. The kitchen has stew on the fire, and you look like a growing lad who's missed one too many meals. We'll talk training and duties on a full stomach—everything's easier to face after a good meal, my boy." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Whispers of the North" data-color="blue"> The stables were hushed as Frederick unsaddled Thunder, the only sounds the soft whinny of horses and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below the castle. The sunset had bled away, leaving a bruised purple sky. An older man approached from the shadows between the stalls, his armor tarnished and his gait slow and deliberate. Frederick recognized the crest on the breastplate at once—Sir Roland, the local knight. "You've arrived," Sir Roland said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've been expecting you, Frederick." The old knight turned his gaze toward the northern horizon, his eyes clouded with the weight of distant memories. "They say the dragons are gone, boy. Gone from the world, like the old kings and the old magic. But I know better." His weathered hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. "I've seen the shadows move in the north. I've heard the winds carry their song." He looked back at Frederick, and the young squire felt a chill that had nothing to do with the sea breeze. "Your training begins at dawn. Until then, rest well." Sir Roland paused at the stable door, his silhouette framed against the darkening sky. "And pray, boy—pray to whatever gods you hold dear—that you are ready for what is coming." </nc-section>