Run: 2026-10-08-01M4DA1DVENFRNY1YKYEJKNY3K

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: A Welcome at the Stables" data-color="red"> I had barely drawn Thunder to a halt before the stable boy rushed forward to take the reins. Before I could dismount, a tall figure stepped out from the shadow of the timber archway. He wore a dented breastplate polished at the edges, and a grey cloak hung from his shoulders. His beard was streaked with silver, but his stride was as firm as any young man's. "You must be Frederick," he said, his voice warm and carrying. "I am Sir Roland. I have been expecting you since the bells rang at noon." I swung down from the saddle, my legs stiff from the long ride, and bowed as my father had taught me. "Sir Roland. It is an honor to be taken in by your household." He laughed, a deep sound that startled a nearby pigeon into flight. "Honor is a fine word, lad, but let us see whether you still think so after a month of my drills. Come, leave your horse to Tobin here. He is the best groom in the kingdom, though he will swear otherwise." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Knight's Measure" data-color="green"> Sir Roland's eyes travelled over me slowly, from my dusty boots to the travel-worn satchel on my shoulder, and I felt suddenly aware of every patch and mended seam in my clothing. He said nothing for a long moment, then nodded once, as though he had reached a private verdict. "Your father wrote to me that you can ride better than any boy in your village," he said. "He did not mention whether you can listen." "I can listen, sir," I replied, though my voice came out smaller than I intended. "We shall see." He gestured toward the stables, where the scent of hay and leather drifted into the evening air. "Tobin will tend your stallion. Then you will eat, sleep, and at first light you will meet the others. Do not be late. Lateness is the one sin I do not forgive." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: Steel and Silence" data-color="blue"> A figure emerged from the stables just as Thunder snorted and tossed his head. It was Sir Roland, a knight of middle years with close-cropped hair and a face weathered by sun and sword. He carried a worn leather gauntlet in one hand and wore no ornament of rank, only a plain tunic belted at the waist. "Easy, old friend," he murmured, and to my surprise the great stallion quieted at once beneath his touch. Then the knight turned his gaze to me. "Frederick, I presume. You rode in hard and fast. Good. Speed is useful. But a squire who arrives at dusk with a lathered horse has learned nothing about patience." He offered his hand, and I took it. His grip was firm, calloused, and brief. "Welcome to Ashford Keep. Put your things in the loft above the tack room. Tomorrow, you will learn what a squire's duty truly means, and I promise it will not be what the songs tell you." </nc-section>