Run: 2026-10-09-01M4G00YR08BSXWCDWEA0QB82D

<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: A Knight at the Stables" data-color="red"> Thunder had barely slowed to a walk before a broad-shouldered figure stepped out from the stable doorway. He wore dented plate armor polished at the edges, and a grey beard framed a face weathered by years of sun and sparring. He raised a hand in greeting, and the lines around his eyes deepened into a grin. "You must be the new squire," he called. "Frederick, if the message I received was correct. I am Sir Roland. Dismount, lad, before that beast decides to drag you back out the gate." I slid from the saddle, my legs unsteady after the long ride. Sir Roland clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder, nearly knocking me sideways. "Good. Strong shoulders. You'll need them. The stable boys will take Thunder. Come, there's a great deal you need to learn before supper, and I suspect you're hungry enough to eat the banners." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Measure of a Squire" data-color="green"> Sir Roland was leaning against the stable post, arms folded, watching me with the quiet scrutiny of a man who had judged a thousand horses and a thousand boys. He did not move as I approached. Instead, he tilted his head toward Thunder, who snorted and tossed his mane. "Fine animal," he said at last. "Yours?" "My father's, sir. He gave him to me when I was accepted." "Hm. Then he will expect you to care for him better than you cared for your own boots on the road." Roland pushed off the post and strode toward the stalls, gesturing for me to follow. "Here, a squire's first lesson. A knight is only as good as the creatures and tools he keeps. Brush him down, check his hooves, and then come find me. I'll show you the armory once you've proven you can tell a sound hoof from a cracked one." I felt the weight of his gaze on my back as I led Thunder into the straw-scented dark, determined not to disappoint him. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: Words by the Stables" data-color="blue"> The evening air smelled of hay and woodsmoke. As I stood uncertainly beside the stable doors, a tall knight emerged from the shadows, his surcoat bearing a faded silver hawk. He studied me for a long moment before his expression softened into something almost kind. "Sir Roland," he said, extending his hand. "I have trained every squire this castle has seen in the last twenty years, and I can tell you one thing already, Frederick. You rode in here like a man who has never once looked back. That is either the bravest thing or the most foolish, and the castle will decide which." I gripped his hand and felt the calluses of a lifetime of swordwork. "I hope to earn my place, sir." "Hope is a fine start," Roland replied, releasing me. "But hope does not polish armor or muck out stables. Come. Let us see if you can do both before the bells ring." </nc-section>