<nc-section data-title="Sir Roland's Welcome" data-color="red"> Nearly at the stables, a gruff voice boomed, "Halt, boy!" Sir Roland, a knight whose armor bore the scars of countless battles, emerged from the shadows of the stable archway. His beard was as gray as a winter storm, and his eyes, though weathered, held a keen glint as he assessed my arrival. "You must be young Frederick. Don't dawdle, the day's work is far from over." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="A Knightly Greeting" data-color="green"> As Thunder settled into a trot near the stables, a figure detached himself from the deepening twilight. Sir Roland, a knight of formidable presence and a stern, yet not unkind, expression, approached. His polished breastplate gleamed faintly in the fading light. "Welcome, Frederick," he said, his voice a steady rumble. "Your training begins now. Best not to keep your steed waiting, nor your duties." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Gatekeeper" data-color="blue"> Reaching the stables, I dismounted, tying Thunder to a sturdy post. A man, broad-shouldered and clad in the practical leather of a knight's man-at-arms, stepped forward. This was reputedly Sir Roland, the master of training. He eyed me up and down with an unreadable expression. "So, you're the new squire. Frederick, is it? The stables are no place to be admiring the sunset, lad. There are chores to be done before you can rest." </nc-section>