<nc-section data-title="The Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> I pulled on the reins, bringing Thunder to a skittish halt before the gaping maw of the royal stables. The scent of dry hay and manure was thick in the air. Before my boots even touched the cobblestones, a imposing figure detached itself from the shadows of the archway. It was Sir Roland. The old knight’s plate armor was dull in the twilight, scratched from a thousand practice bouts, but he stood as unyielding as the castle walls. He crossed his arms, the metal of his gauntlets scraping against his breastplate. "You ride that beast as if the Hounds of Hell are nipping at your heels, boy," Roland rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. He looked pointedly at Thunder’s heaving flared nostrils. "A knight treats his mount better than himself. Walk him cool before you even think of unbuckling that saddle, or your training ends before it begins." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="A Mentor's Gaze" data-color="green"> Guided by the dim lanterns hanging from the stable beams, I slowed Thunder to a walk. My heart hammered against my ribs—not from the ride, but from the sight of the man waiting by the water trough. Sir Roland was peeling an apple with a small paring knife, looking far more casual than the legends suggested. He looked up as I slid from the saddle, my legs wobbling slightly from the long journey. Roland tossed a slice of the apple to Thunder, who snatched it greedily, before turning his warm, crinkled eyes toward me. "Easy now, lad," Roland said, a faint smile touching his lips beneath a graying beard. "Breathe. The castle isn't going anywhere, and neither am I." He clasped a heavy hand on my shoulder, steadying me. "You have your father's chin, Frederick. Let us hope you have his patience as well. You'll need it." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Shadows and Steel" data-color="blue"> The cobblestones sparked as Thunder's iron shoes struck them, the clatter echoing loudly in the quiet courtyard. Steam rose from my horse's flanks, swirling into the cooling evening mist. Near the stable entrance, a silhouette leaned against a wooden post, cleaning a massive broadsword with a rag. Sir Roland didn't look up immediately. He continued his rhythmic motion—*swish, wipe, swish*—until the steel gleamed orange in the torchlight. Only then did he sheath the weapon and step forward, the candlelight catching the jagged scar running down his left cheek. "You're late," Roland said, the authority in his tone absolute. He didn't offer a greeting, merely a critical assessment that made me feel very small. "The darkness brings more than just night in these parts, squire. Next time, ensure you are behind the gates before the sun touches the horizon. Now, get that beast fed." </nc-section>