<nc-section data-title="Sir Roland's Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted near the stables, the heavy scent of hay and wet stone filling my senses, a towering figure stepped from the shadows. Sir Roland stood with his arms crossed over a breastplate scarred by years of combat. He didn't offer a hand or a smile; instead, his grey eyes tracked my every movement with cold precision. "You're late, squire," he barked, his voice like grinding gravel. "In the Chronicles, time is as precious as dragon scale. Rub down your mount and meet me in the courtyard. If you bleed as easily as you ride, this will be a very short apprenticeship." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="A Warm Reception" data-color="green"> Thunder's hooves clattered on the cobblestones as I pulled him to a halt by the stable doors. A boisterous laugh rang out, and a man with a salt-and-pepper beard stepped forward, wiping grease from his hands onto a rag. This was Sir Roland, the legendary knight I had heard so much about. "Easy there, lad! You've arrived just in time for the evening broth," he said, clapping a heavy, friendly hand on my shoulder. "The castle is full of ghosts and old stories, but today we start a new chapter. Give the boy a hand with his gear, and let's see if that squire's spirit is as bright as your horse's coat." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Knight's Appraisal" data-color="blue"> I led Thunder toward the hitching post, feeling the weight of the castle's history pressing down on me. Near the stalls, a man was meticulously polishing a longsword, the steel catching the last rays of the dying sun. Sir Roland looked up, his expression unreadable, a map of fine lines and old wisdom. He stood slowly, sheath clicking against his thigh. "So, you are the one they sent to witness the end of the age," he mused, his voice quiet but resonant. "The Last Dragon is more than a legend, Frederick. It is a responsibility. Come, let us see if your hands are steady enough to hold the light." </nc-section>