<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Critical Eye" data-color="red"> Strict discipline hung in the air as I guided Thunder toward the thatched stables. A tall figure stood waiting by the trough, arms crossed over a chest plate that still bore the scuffs of recent practice. It was Sir Roland, the realm’s most decorated lance. I swung my leg over the saddle, landing in the dirt with a heavy thud and a puff of dust. I scrambled to straighten my tunic, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Sloppy," a gravelly voice cut through the evening air. Sir Roland didn't move, his eyes tracking my every fumble. "You ride well enough for a country boy, Frederick, but your dismount would get you skewered in a skirmish. Leave the beast to the stable hands. Stand tall." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Warm Welcome" data-color="green"> The smell of fresh hay and old leather greeted me as I slowed Thunder to a trot near the open stable doors. Standing there, holding a bucket of apples, was a man with greying temples and a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Ho there, steady now," Sir Roland said, stepping forward to catch Thunder’s bridle with a gentle, practiced hand. He patted the stallion's neck before turning his attention to me. I hopped down, my knees shaking slightly from the long ride. Roland clasped a heavy hand on my shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. "You look just like your father did when he first rode through these gates. Welcome to the brotherhood, lad. We’ve been expecting you." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Weary Watcher" data-color="blue"> Shadows stretched long across the cobblestones as I approached the mews. Leaning against the rough timber of the stable entrance was Sir Roland. He wasn't wearing his ceremonial helm, and without it, he looked older than the legends claimed. He held a whetstone in one hand and a dagger in the other, the rhythmic *shhh-shhh* of sharpening pausing as I drew near. I dismounted, the sound of my boots on the stone echoing too loudly in the quiet courtyard. Roland didn't smile. He merely nodded, his gaze heavy with a burden I didn't yet understand. "So," he murmured, sliding the dagger into his belt. "Another soul offering himself to the fire. Tie your horse, boy. The sun is down, and childhood ends tonight." </nc-section>