<nc-section data-title="A Fiery Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted near the cavernous stables, my legs trembling from the long ride, a figure emerged from the shadows. He was built like a mountain crag, clad in steel plate a dull, menacing crimson under the setting sun. A thick, fiery beard spilled over his gorget, and a fresh scar cut a pale white line across his brow. He didn't walk so much as stomp, each step a challenge to the very ground. &quot;You the boy? Frederick?&quot; he boomed, his voice a gravelly avalanche. He snatched Thunder&#x27;s reins from my hand, his grip so tight the leather groaned. My stallion snorted, tossing his head in protest. &quot;Steady, beast,&quot; the knight growled, giving the reins a vicious tug. He turned his flinty gaze on me, looking me up and down with open disdain. &quot;You look half-starved and your saddle is cinched too loosely. Another soft boy from the south sent to play at war. I am Sir Roland. And I will be the forge that either tempers you into a weapon or melts you into slag. Now, see to your horse. The work begins at dawn.&quot; He thrust the reins back into my chest and turned, his heavy cape swirling like blood in water. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Knight of the Stables" data-color="green"> The rich, earthy scent of hay and manure filled the air as I led Thunder towards the stables. Leaning against a wooden beam, a man was patiently sharpening a dagger with a whetstone. He wasn't in the shining armor of my daydreams, but in practical, well-worn leather jerkin over a simple gambeson. His face was weathered, his brown hair streaked with grey, but his eyes were a sharp, clear green, missing nothing. He set the stone and dagger aside as I approached, wiping his hands on his breeches. &quot;Frederick?&quot; he asked, his voice calm and even. I nodded, my throat suddenly dry. &quot;I am Sir Roland,&quot; he said with a simple dip of his head. He walked a slow circle around Thunder, his gaze expert and appraising. He ran a hand along my stallion&#x27;s sweaty flank. &quot;Good legs. Strong back. You rode him hard, but not cruelly. That&#x27;s a start.&quot; He finally looked at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. &quot;A knight&#x27;s first duty is to his mount. Second is to his arms. Third is to his lord. Forget that order, and you&#x27;ll end up dead. Go on, find a stall and give him a proper rubdown. I&#x27;ll be watching.&quot; </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="A Gentle Greeting" data-color="blue"> I swung myself down from Thunder&#x27;s back, my body aching with a profound weariness. A knight approached, and the worried knot in my stomach loosened. He was older, with a kind face framed by silver hair that shone in the twilight. His armor was of an older style, meticulously cared for, and his blue cloak was the color of a deep, calm sea. The eyes that met mine were filled with a gentle wisdom, though they held a deep-seated sorrow I could not yet understand. A warm, reassuring smile touched his lips. &quot;Frederick. A long journey, I imagine,&quot; he said, his voice a balm after the harshness of the road. &quot;I am Sir Roland. It is a pleasure to finally meet you. We have been expecting you.&quot; He placed a gloved hand on my shoulder, the weight of it both grounding and comforting. His gaze drifted from me to my horse. &quot;That is a fine animal,&quot; he said softly. &quot;He has served you well. Let us find him a place to rest. Then you shall have a hot meal and a soft bed. There will be time enough for training on the morrow. Tonight, you are simply a welcome guest within these walls.&quot; </nc-section>