<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> Frederick guided Thunder down the winding track toward the stables, heart pounding with anticipation. As he crested the hillock, a tall figure emerged from the shadow of the great oak: Sir Roland, the kingdom’s finest knight, his crimson cloak draped over polished plate-mail. Sunlight gleamed off the lion emblazoned on his breastplate. “Welcome to Castle Aranthor, lad,” Roland said in a resonant voice that carried a friendly warmth. He lifted his helm, revealing a broad smile and eyes that seemed to appraise Frederick’s mettle. With a nod, he gestured toward the rows of meticulously groomed mounts. “Thunder looks strong—but strength alone won’t make you a knight. Come, I’ll show you how we treat our horses… and our squires.” Frederick slid from the saddle, awe mingling with resolve as he followed the knight toward the stables, certain that his true training was about to begin. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> Thunder’s hooves echoed on the cobblestones as Frederick approached the stable yard. Before he could steady his breathing, a stern voice cut through the evening air. Sir Roland strode forward, gauntleted hand resting on the pommel of his longsword. “So you’re the new squire?” Roland said, voice edged with challenge. “They say you’ve got spirit—but spirit won’t carry you through a fight.” He tapped Thunder’s flank with the flat of his blade. The horse shifted uneasily. Frederick swallowed. “I—I’m ready to learn, Sir Roland.” Roland’s lips curved into a half-smirk. “We’ll see. Start by mucking out these stalls before sunset. Then we’ll test your balance and your courage in the courtyard. Dismissed.” With that, the knight turned on his heel, leaving Frederick to wonder if he was being tested—or set up to fail. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> A hush fell over the stables as Frederick guided Thunder through the gates. From the shadows of the hayloft stepped Sir Roland, his azure cloak matching the fading sky. His helm was tucked under one arm, and his stern gaze held a hint of something unreadable—concern, perhaps, or foreboding. “Good evening, young squire,” Roland said softly. He placed a gauntleted hand on Thunder’s neck, inspecting the horse with careful eyes. “I trust your journey was uneventful. Yet I do not trust these walls… or what stirs beyond them.” Frederick’s pulse quickened. “Sir Roland?” The knight nodded gravely. “There are whispers of unrest at court, shadows in places we once called safe. I will train you not only to wield a sword, but to read the silvered lies of men. Come. Tonight, you sleep under the watch of the guard—tomorrow, you begin your true education.” With that, Roland led the way into the flickering lamplight of the stables, and Frederick followed, every nerve alight with curiosity and caution. </nc-section>