<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Gauntlet" data-color="red"> As I reined Thunder to a stop before the great stables, a voice, rough as gravel, cut through the air. "You'll ruin that beast if you ride him so hard into the yard." A man detached himself from the stable shadows, his armor scarred and dented, his face a roadmap of old battles. This was Sir Roland. His eyes, the color of a winter sky, held no warmth. He gestured with a gauntleted hand not to the castle, but to a water trough. "A knight's first duty is to his mount. See to Thunder. Then, and only then, will you see to me. Do you understand, boy?" The question was a challenge, and I knew my training had begun not with a welcome, but with a test. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Mentor" data-color="green"> I guided Thunder to a gentle halt, the stallion's flanks heaving but not exhausted. A figure emerged from the stables, not with the clatter of armor, but with the quiet grace of a man at home. He was older, with a kind face framed by streaks of silver in his hair, and his smile reached his deep green eyes. "A fine partnership," he said, his voice calm and soothing. "You ride with a light hand, and he responds with a willing heart. I am Sir Roland." He placed a gentle hand on Thunder's neck, and the great horse immediately calmed. "A good squire listens not just with his ears, but with his heart. Come, let us walk your friend to cool down, and you can tell me of your journey." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Sentinel" data-color="blue"> Thunder's hooves echoed on the cobblestones as I approached the stables. A knight stood there, motionless, as if carved from the same stone as the castle walls. His plate armor was polished to a mirror sheen, but his blue eyes seemed distant, fixed on some point beyond the horizon. He turned his head slowly as I drew near. "Frederick," he stated, his voice a low, formal baritone. It was not a question. "I am Sir Roland. Your arrival was expected." He made no move to help with my horse, his posture ramrod straight, a perfect sentinel. "The stable hands will see to your mount. Your training awaits in the courtyard. Do not keep the Master-at-Arms waiting." With that, he turned and walked away, his cape a deep, solemn blue against the grey stone. </nc-section>