<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> Thunder’s hooves clattered against the cobblestones as I reigned him in before the looming archway of the royal stables. Before I could even swing my leg over the saddle, a shadow detached itself from the darkened entrance. "You ride heavy, boy," a gravelly voice rumbled. Sir Roland stepped into the dying light, his armor dull and scratched from years of use, though his posture remained as rigid as a lance. He didn't offer a hand. Instead, his steel-grey eyes swept over me, then Thunder, finding fault in seconds that I hadn't noticed in years. "A squire who tires his mount before the real work begins is of no use to me. Dismount. Let us see if you stand better than you ride." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> I guided Thunder gently toward the water troughs, the scent of hay and old leather welcoming us home. Leaning against a wooden post, whittling a piece of apple for a nearby mare, stood a man with a face lined by laughter as much as war. "Frederick!" Sir Roland called out, pushing off the post to catch Thunder's bridle as I hopped down. His grip was firm, his smile broad and genuine beneath a salt-and-pepper beard. "I recognized that gallop from a mile away. Your father’s rhythm, through and through." He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder, dust rising from my tunic. "Leave the beast to the stable hands. You look famished, and the kitchen has a roast that won't wait for pleasantries. It is good to have you here, lad." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> The stable yard was a chaotic symphony of braying mules, clanging metal, and shouting men. I weaved Thunder through the throng, barely avoiding a cart laden with grain. Near the far stalls, Sir Roland was already waist-deep in the business of the garrison, barking orders at a terrified groom while inspecting a cracked stirrup. "Tighten the strap, don't just look at it!" Roland snapped, before his gaze snapped toward me. He didn't smile, but the tension in his jaw loosened just a fraction. "You made it," he said, wiping grease from his hands onto a rag. "Timing could be better; we're short three hands and a blacksmith. Don't get comfortable, Frederick. Tie that horse up and grab a pitchfork. Your training starts with the muck—right now." </nc-section>