<nc-section data-title="Version 1: Sir Roland's Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted Thunder near the stables, a broad-shouldered figure stepped out from the shadow of the gatehouse. His armor gleamed even in the fading light, and a thick scar ran from his left temple to the corner of his jaw — a mark of battles I could only imagine. "You must be Frederick," he said, his voice deep and steady as a war drum. "I am Sir Roland, Knight of the Eastern Watch." He extended a gauntleted hand, and I shook it, trying not to wince at the iron grip that closed around my fingers. His dark eyes studied me with an intensity that made me feel as though he were reading every weakness I carried. "You're smaller than I expected," he said plainly, then turned toward the stables. "But I've seen small men fell giants. Come — see to your horse first. A knight who neglects his mount neglects his own life." I hurried after him, my boots crunching on the cobblestones, my heart hammering with equal parts excitement and dread. This was truly the beginning. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Gentle Introduction" data-color="green"> A stable hand rushed forward to take Thunder's reins as I slid from the saddle, my legs aching from the long ride. I was stretching the stiffness from my back when a warm, jovial voice called out to me. "Ah, so the new squire arrives at last! And just in time for supper — the heavens smile upon you, lad." I turned to find a tall man leaning against the stable door, arms folded across a well-worn leather jerkin. His hair was silver at the temples, but his smile was youthful and kind. A longsword hung at his hip as naturally as a limb. "Sir Roland?" I asked, remembering the name from my father's letter. "The very same," he said with a slight bow that seemed almost playful. "And you are Frederick, son of Aldric. Your father and I rode together in the Thornfield Campaign. Good man. Terrible cook." He chuckled at his own memory and clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Come, let's get you settled. Tomorrow your training begins, and I promise you — you'll wish you'd stayed in bed." His laughter echoed through the courtyard, and despite my exhaustion, I couldn't help but smile. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: A Cold Reception" data-color="blue"> The stables smelled of hay and sweat and old leather. I led Thunder inside, searching for an empty stall, when the sharp ring of a blade being drawn froze me in place. "Don't move." The voice came from behind me — cold, precise, and utterly without emotion. I felt the faintest kiss of steel against the back of my neck. "State your name and your business, or I'll have your head before it hits the ground." "Frederick," I stammered, my mouth dry as parchment. "Frederick of Ashenvale. I'm — I'm here to serve as squire. I have a letter of appointment from Lord Harwick." A long silence followed. Then the blade withdrew, and I heard it slide back into its scabbard with a whisper of metal. I turned slowly to find a lean, weathered knight standing in the dim lamplight. His face was angular and hard, as though carved from the same stone as the castle walls. There was no warmth in his grey eyes. "I am Sir Roland," he said. "And your first lesson has already begun. Never enter an unfamiliar place without watching for threats." He stepped past me without another word, pausing only at the stable door. "See to your horse. Then report to the great hall. You have much to learn, boy — and very little time to learn it." He vanished into the twilight, and I stood there trembling, Thunder nudging my shoulder as if to remind me that at least *he* was still on my side. </nc-section>