<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Stern Test" data-color="red"> I guided Thunder toward the expansive wooden structure of the stables, the clatter of hooves on cobblestones echoing against the high walls. As I slid from the saddle, my legs felt heavy, jelly-like after the long ride. A groom rushed forward to take the reins, but my attention snapped to the figure leaning against the stable frame. Sir Roland was taller than I remembered, his silhouette imposing against the torchlight flickering from within. He wore a simple tabard over chainmail, but the scars etching his face told stories of a hundred battles. He didn't smile. He simply crossed his arms, his steel-grey eyes scanning me from muddy boots to wind-tangled hair. "You ride with too much spirit and not enough caution, Frederick," Roland rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "A flashy entrance serves no one if you deaden your mount before the war begins. Clean him down yourself before you report to the barracks. A knight serves his horse before he serves himself." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: Old Alliances" data-color="green"> The smell of sweet hay and old leather greeted me as I pulled Thunder to a halt near the water troughs. The courtyard was bustling with the evening shift, but one voice cut through the noise—a hearty, familiar laugh. "By the gods, is that little Freddy?" I dismounted just as Sir Roland strode out from the stalls, wiping grease from his hands onto a rag. He looked less like the terrifying legends and more like the old friend my father spoke of so fondly. His beard was graying, but his grip was iron-strong as he clasped my forearm and pulled me into a rough embrace. "Look at you," Roland beamed, stepping back to look me over, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You’ve got your mother’s eyes and your father’s stubborn jaw. Leave the beast with the stable master, lad. You and I have much to discuss, and the kitchen has just roasted a boar in your honor." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Watcher in the Shadows" data-color="blue"> Dusk had truly fallen by the time I reached the stables, bringing with it a chill that settled into the marrow of my bones. I dismounted, patting Thunder’s neck to soothe him; the stallion was skittish, reacting to the unfamiliar scents of the castle's other beasts. "He smells the dragons of old," a quiet voice observed. I started, turning to see a man stepping out of the gloom near the tack room. It was Sir Roland. He moved with a predator's grace, silent despite the plate armor regarding his shoulders. In the dying light, the crest on his chest—a fractured shield—seemed to glow faintly. He didn't look at me, but rather stared intently at my horse. "The lineage of this keep seeps into the wood and stone, Frederick," Roland said, finally turning his gaze toward me. It was an appraising look, void of emotion but full of calculation. "Welcome to the Citadel. I hope you are prepared to learn what lies beneath the stonework. Secure your mount. We begin immediately." </nc-section>