<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Iron Welcome" data-color="red"> I reigned Thunder in as we approached the stable block, the stallion’s hooves striking sparks against the cobblestones. Waiting there, arms crossed over a chest plate that had seen better decades, was Sir Roland. He didn't smile. He merely watched as I swung my leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, my boots scuffing the dust. "You ride with too much spirit and too little control, boy," Roland rumbled, his voice sounding like gravel grinding in a mill. He stepped forward, grabbing Thunder's bridle before the horse could dance away. "A knight’s mount is a weapon, not a toy for joyriding in the sunset. Get him brushed and fed. Then find me in the armory. We have work to do before the moon is high." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Familiar Face" data-color="green"> Near the heavy oak doors of the stables, a hulking figure leaned against a water trough, whittling a piece of cedar. It was Sir Roland, the man my father had spoken of with such reverence. As I slid from Thunder’s back, patting the horse’s sweating neck, Roland straightened up and sheathed his dagger. "So, the fledgling finally leaves the nest," he said, a broad, warm grin splitting his bearded face. He walked over and clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder, nearly buckling my knees with the force of his affection. "Good to see you, Frederick. You look just like your mother around the eyes. Leave the beast to the stable hands; come inside. There’s a hot stew waiting and stories to be told." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: Shadows at Dusk" data-color="blue"> The courtyard was quieter than I expected, the usual bustle of the castle subdued by the encroaching twilight. As I guided Thunder toward the stables, Sir Roland emerged from the shadows of the haylofts, his movement sharp and urgent. He was fully armored, his hand resting uneasily on the pommel of his sword. "You're late," Roland hissed, glancing up at the battlements as if expecting archers. He grabbed my arm the moment my boots hit the dirt. "Forget the pleasantries, Frederick. The King is ill, and the whispers in the court are venomous tonight. Hand your reins to the boy and follow me—quickly. We must get you sanctioned before the sun truly sets, or your training will be the least of our worries." </nc-section>