<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> Frederick dismounted at the edge of the stables, the scent of hay and horses thick in the evening air. Before he could tighten Thunder’s saddle, a tall figure in gleaming armor strode forward, helm tucked under one arm. “Welcome to Blackstone Keep,” the knight rumbled, his voice warm yet authoritative. He extended a gauntleted hand. “I am Sir Roland. I’ve heard much of your courage on the training fields. Come, I will show you where you’ll lay your head—and where you’ll learn to wield a blade worthy of our king.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> A soft clatter of hoofbeats brought Frederick’s head up just in time to see Sir Roland emerge from the shadows between the stalls. The knight’s smile was faint, almost hidden beneath a neatly trimmed beard. “You must be the new squire,” he observed, voice low as he inspected Frederick’s worn tabard. “Blackstone’s walls have ears, and the wind whispers of great deeds in your future. If you prove yourself tonight at the forge, I may yet teach you more than basic drills.” With a nod, Roland led the way toward a lantern-lit doorway at the stable’s far end. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> Frederick paused halfway across the cobbled courtyard when a hand landed on his shoulder, firm and unyielding. He turned to find Sir Roland, his breastplate catching the last light of dusk in brilliant arcs. “Easy there, lad,” the knight said, his tone sharp but not unkind. “Your mount seems eager—and so should you be. The castle awaits, and there’s no time for hesitation.” As Roland led Frederick past rows of restless steeds, the distant clang of the armory bell echoed, a stark reminder that training never sleeps. </nc-section>