<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> Sir Roland stood beneath the low eaves of the stable, his polished helm tucked under one arm. He was a broad-shouldered figure clad in burnished plate, the heraldry on his breastplate—a silver griffin on a field of crimson—reflecting the dying evening light. “Welcome to Greycastle, Frederick,” he said with a measured nod. His voice was deep, an echo of authority tempered by kindness. “I trust Thunder carried you well?” Frederick felt the knot in his stomach loosen under the knight’s steady gaze. With a courteous bow, Sir Roland added, “Come; allow me to introduce you to your first task. A squire must learn respect for both horse and stable before he wields a blade.” He gestured toward the stalls, where the gentle nickering of horses mingled with the rustle of straw. Frederick followed, heart alight with anticipation. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> Sir Roland emerged from the shadows of the hayloft with an easy grin, his hand resting on the pommel of a longsword slung casually at his hip. “Ah, the famous Frederick!” he called, voice rich with welcome. “I’ve heard you ride like the wind, but will you survive a week of mucking out stalls?” Frederick blinked, uncertain whether to laugh or bow. The knight laughed, tousling the squire’s hair as if they had known each other for years. “I’m only teasing. Thunder seems the sort that could take you all the way to the Dragonspire Mountains and back.” He waved a gauntleted hand toward a row of gleaming saddles and polished hoof-scoops. “Your first order of business is to learn the stable’s rhythms—feed the horses, clean the tack, and trust me, they’ll be your greatest allies.” Frederick grinned, feeling the warmth of belonging settle in his chest. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> Sir Roland loomed at the stable entrance, cloak drawn tight against the chill that drifted off the northern moors. There was a solemnity in his stance, and Frederick stiffened as the knight’s steel-blue eyes measured him. “Frederick,” Sir Roland pronounced, voice low and grave, “these walls shelter more than banners and warmth. In the days ahead, you’ll witness the shadow that creeps along our borders.” He motioned toward the stalls, where Thunder pawed the ground nervously. “First, you must prove your mettle at the forge of discipline. Greet the horses, brush them clean, and then join me in the courtyard when the moon rises.” He produced a slender scarlet ribbon emblazoned with the royal crest. “Wear this—let it remind you that every task, no matter how humble, binds you to the knight you hope to become.” With that, Sir Roland turned his gaze toward the darkening sky, and Frederick felt an unexpected weight settle on his shoulders. </nc-section>