<nc-section data-title="Meeting Sir Roland (Version 1)" data-color="red"> As I dismounted near the hay-scented stables, a shadow fell across the cobblestones. Sir Roland stood there, his scarred hand resting on the hilt of a broadsword. He didn't offer a smile, only a grunt of acknowledgment that smelled faintly of ale and old leather. "So, the Council sent me a whelp instead of a warrior," he growled, his steel-grey eyes tracking the nervous twitch of my hands. "Tie up your beast, squire. The dragons won't wait for you to find your footing." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Meeting Sir Roland (Version 2)" data-color="green"> A hearty laugh echoed from the stable doors as a large man in polished plate armor stepped into the twilight. Sir Roland beamed, his golden beard catching the last rays of the sun. "Young Frederick! I knew your father well," he boomed, clapping a gauntleted hand onto my shoulder with enough force to make my knees buckle. "You’ve arrived just in time for the evening feast. A full stomach is the first requirement of a knight, followed closely by a sharp blade!" </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Meeting Sir Roland (Version 3)" data-color="blue"> The stables were quiet, save for the rhythmic brushing of a horse’s coat. A tall, lean knight emerged from the shadows, wiping grease from a heavy wrench. Sir Roland was not the armored titan I had imagined, but a man of quiet intensity and sharp, observant eyes. "You’re late, Frederick," he said, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of command. "A squire’s life is measured in seconds. If you can't outrun the sun, how do you expect to outrun a dragon's flame? Take the horse inside." </nc-section>