<nc-section data-title="Version 1: A Tense Encounter" data-color="red"> As I dismounted from Thunder, wiping the sweat from my brow, a towering figure emerged from the shadows of the stable. His armor gleamed blood-red in the dying light, the insignia of the Royal Guard etched into his breastplate. "Frederick of Westhollow, I presume?" His voice was cold steel, matching the calculating look in his eyes. "I am Sir Roland, Knight Commander of the Eastern Wing. Your arrival is..." he paused, examining me from head to toe, "...unexpected. The King spoke of sending a man, not a boy barely weaned from his mother's teat." His hand rested casually on the pommel of his sword, fingers drumming rhythmically against the jeweled hilt. "Let us hope your skill exceeds your stature, squire. These are dangerous times to be found wanting." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Warm Welcome" data-color="green"> Thunder had barely come to a halt when hearty laughter echoed across the courtyard. A knight with a salt-and-pepper beard strode toward me, arms outstretched in welcome. "By the gods, you must be Frederick!" he called, his voice warm as summer ale. "Sir Roland, at your service." He clasped my forearm in the traditional warrior's grip, strong but genuine. "The journey treats you well? I've had the stable boys prepare fresh hay and oats for your mount." His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, the kindness in them belying the battle scars that crossed his weathered face. "Come, lad. The castle kitchen has prepared a feast to welcome you, and I wager you have questions aplenty. Your father spoke highly of your swordplay—perhaps tomorrow we'll see if his pride was warranted!" </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: A Mysterious Mentor" data-color="blue"> I was leading Thunder toward the water trough when a shadow detached itself from the stable wall. The figure moved with uncanny silence, appearing before me as if conjured from thin air. "The seventh son of the seventh son arrives at last," he said, voice barely above a whisper. His armor wasn't polished like the other knights'—instead, it bore strange runes that seemed to shimmer in the twilight. "I am Sir Roland, though some call me the Dragon's Shadow." He studied me with eyes that reflected no light. "You carry more than your father's sword, young Frederick. You carry a destiny few could bear." He gestured toward a faint blue glow emanating from my saddlebag—a glow I hadn't noticed until now. "The ancient texts spoke of your coming. Now we must prepare you, for the last dragon stirs from its slumber, and you alone carry the bloodline that can either save our realm... or end it." </nc-section>