<nc-section data-title="The Greetings of Sir Roland" data-color="red"> As I dismounted my steed, a battle-worn knight approached me, his armor gleaming in the fading light. He extended a gauntleted hand in greeting. "Sir Frederick Wynter, I presume? Welcome to Glornadoch Castle, young man. I am Sir Roland, the king's champion. We've been expecting you." I shook his hand firmly, noting the calluses on his palm from years of swordplay. "Thank you, Sir Roland. It's an honor to meet you. I'm eager to begin my training." "Aye, we could use a fresh face," he chuckled. "You've arrived none too soon. Dark times are upon us - the orc tribes are raiding villages to the north. There is much to be done." He led me towards the stables as he spoke. "I'll have the stablehands take your horse. You can join the other squires in the hall for supper. I look forward to sparring with you tomorrow and testing your mettle." <nc-section data-title="Roland's Return" data-color="green"> Sir Roland emerged from the gatehouse as I rode up, the setting sun glinting off his polished breastplate. He nodded in recognition. "Frederick Wynter. Your arrival was expected." I swung down from my saddle and approached, trying to project an air of confidence despite my nerves. "Sir Roland. It's a pleasure." "You're too late to join the men at arms today. But I'll expect you to be at the training grounds at dawn sharp tomorrow. We'll see what potential you have." His appraising gaze swept me from head to toe. "Dismissed." With that, he turned and strode back inside, leaving me to unsaddle my mount alone. I felt a prickle of annoyance at his cool dismissal, but stowed it. I had much to prove to earn his respect. As I led Thunder to the stables, I couldn't help but wonder what the next days would bring. And whether I was truly ready for what was to come, though resolved to forge my mettle into the sword of a grand knight, no matter the challenges. <nc-section data-title="The King's Champion" data-color="blue"> I had barely dismounted before a knight with a shaggy beard and mismatched armor approached, wiping grease off oversized gauntlets. "Frederick Wynter! Welcome lad. I'm Sir Roland, the king's champion. Well, was, 15 years ago. Still go by the title." He squinted at me in the dimming light. "You'll do. Scrawny, but look to have some fight in you. Reminds me of meself at your age. Right! Let's get you settled in the stables..." He took the reins of my horse. "We'll see what you're made of tomorrow. I'll be puttin' you through your paces. And watch the bards and maids, I've already warned 'em to keep their distance, ye ken?" With a wink, he turned and led my steed away, leaving me standing before the towering castle walls, wondering if I would be able to prove myself worthy of my sword in the halls of Glornadoch. But I knew I would do whatever it took to master my craft, for blade and glory.