As Thunder slowed to a trot, the clang of the portcullis rising echoed in the courtyard. Stable hands rushed to take my reins, their faces a mixture of curiosity and indifference. I dismounted, my legs stiff from the long ride, and took a moment to pat Thunder's sweat-slicked neck. It was then that a figure emerged from the deep shadows of the stables, his armor glinting in the torchlight. <nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> A hulking man with a beard like steel wool and a face carved from granite blocked my path. One eye, a chip of cold slate, raked over me from head to toe, lingering on the fine make of my saddle. “You’re the new whelp? Frederick?” he grunted, his voice a low growl that seemed to vibrate in the cobblestones. He didn’t offer a hand, instead crossing his massive arms over a chestplate dented from a hundred battles. “I am Sir Roland. Give your horse to the boy. We don’t coddle squires or their pampered beasts here. Your training starts at dawn. Don’t be late.” He turned without another word, a mountain of silent disapproval, and disappeared back into the darkness. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> A cheerful, round-faced knight with a magnificent mustache that curled at the ends strode towards me, his hand extended in a warm welcome. “Frederick, my boy! A pleasure to finally meet you! I am Sir Roland.” His grip was firm and friendly, his smile genuine. He clapped me on the shoulder, his eyes twinkling. “A fine beast!” he boomed, giving Thunder an appreciative pat on the flank. “A strong horse for a strong lad, eh? Come, the hour is late. We’ll get you a hot meal and a bed. The real work can wait for the morning sun.” His easy manner washed away the weariness of my journey, and for the first time, the imposing castle felt like a home. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> A tall, dignified knight with silvering hair at his temples approached with a measured stride. His armor was impeccably polished, his posture ramrod straight. “You must be Frederick,” he stated, his voice calm and clear, carrying an air of authority that brooked no argument. “I am Sir Roland, Knight-Captain of the garrison. Welcome to Castle Arvum.” He gave a short, formal nod. “Your quarters are prepared in the squires’ barracks. A stable boy will see to your mount. Report to the training grounds at the first bell. Punctuality is the first and most important virtue of a knight.” He studied me for a moment longer, his gaze sharp and intelligent, before giving a curt turn and heading towards the keep. </nc-section>