<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> Frederick guided Thunder to a soft patch of turf beside the stables and patted his stallion’s muscular shoulder. Before he could secure the reins, a tall figure emerged from the shadows of the wooden rafters. Clad in silver-trimmed armor, Sir Roland approached with measured steps, a courteous smile lifting the corners of his lips. “Welcome to Castle Blackthorn, young squire,” Roland intoned, his voice rich with authority. He extended a gauntleted hand, the crest of a soaring phoenix emblazoned on his breastplate. “I am Sir Roland of the Sunward Order. Your journey has been long—allow me to offer you water and a place by the hearth.” Frederick swallowed, awe fluttering in his chest. He bowed deeply. “Thank you, Sir Roland. I am Frederick of Highvale, and I am honored by your welcome.” Roland nodded approvingly. “Then let us see to your comfort. Tonight, the castle feast awaits, and tomorrow, your lessons will begin in earnest.” With that, he led the squire toward the stables’ warmth, Thunder’s steam curling in the cool evening air. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> Frederick slid off Thunder’s broad back and ran a hand through his hair, still damp with sweat. As he looped the reins over a post, a gentle voice broke the hush of the twilight. “Ah, you must be Frederick,” said Sir Roland, stepping into the lantern’s glow. The knight’s emerald cloak brushed the ground, and his eyes held a spark of curiosity. “I heard tales of a brave boy from Highvale who dared to dream of knighthood.” Frederick’s heart thumped. He kept his gaze steady. “I hope to learn from the best, Sir Roland.” Roland smiled, placing a firm hand upon Frederick’s shoulder. “And you shall. I once stood where you stand now—filled with hope and apprehension. Come, let us fetch water for your mount and speak of your aspirations. A knight’s journey begins not with a sword, but with a steadfast heart.” The squire nodded, the warmth of Roland’s words easing his nerves. Together, they walked between stalls heavy with hay, forging the first bond of mentor and pupil under the gentle hum of nightfall. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> Frederick hopped down from Thunder and nearly tumbled as the stallion shifted his weight. Before he could curse his own clumsiness, a booming voice called out. “Well met, lad! Watch your footing or you’ll be at the bottom of the moat!” Sir Roland strode forward, armor clinking like distant thunder. Despite his robust frame, there was a boyish grin on his face that caught Frederick off guard. “I—yes, Sir Roland,” Frederick stammered, steadying himself. Roland laughed, producing a waterskin from beneath his cloak. “Here—your steed looks parched. I’d hate for him to embarrass you in front of the other squires.” He handed the skins to Frederick then rapped Thunder’s flank with a gloved finger. “Drink up, my friend.” As Frederick offered water to Thunder, the knight leaned in conspiratorially. “Between us, the dining hall stew could use your help in the kitchen, but let’s keep that between me and you.” He clapped the squire on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of him. “Come along—feasts don’t eat themselves, and I expect you at my side when the trumpets call you to table.” Despite the unexpected teasing, Frederick felt a spark of excitement. This was the beginning of an adventure he could scarcely imagine. </nc-section>