<nc-section data-title="A Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> Thunder's hooves had barely touched the packed earth of the stable yard when a figure emerged from the shadows of the hayloft. Sir Roland was broader than Frederick had imagined, his scarlet cloak snapping like a banner in the evening wind. The knight's armor was streaked with rust-colored dust from the road, and his eyes—sharp and appraising—fixed upon the young squire with uncomfortable intensity. "So you're the boy they sent me," Roland growled, stepping forward. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, not in threat, but in habit. The setting sun painted the stable walls in shades of crimson and gold, as if the stones themselves were bleeding. "I don't care whose son you are in the capital. Here, you prove yourself with blood and sweat, not bloodlines." Frederick dismounted, his legs trembling not from the ride but from the heat of the knight's scrutiny. The air smelled of hot iron and straw, suffocating in the day's lingering warmth. Roland grabbed Thunder's reins with one calloused hand, the leather gloves creaking. "Take care of your horse before you take another breath," Roland commanded, his voice low and dangerous. "A squire who neglects his mount neglects his duty. And negligence here..." He leaned closer, his breath hot against Frederick's ear. "...burns like fire." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Earth and the Apprentice" data-color="green"> The stables smelled of sweet hay and living earth, a welcome change from the dust of the road. Sir Roland stood waiting beside the watering trough, his green surcoat blending with the moss that crept along the old stone walls. He was leaner than Frederick expected, with hands that looked more like a farmer's than a warrior's—broad, soil-stained, and gentle as he stroked the nose of a chestnut mare. "Easy there, Thunder," Roland murmured as Frederick approached, his voice as soft as rustling leaves. The knight stepped forward not with challenge, but with a warm, weathered smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "And easy to you as well, young Frederick. The journey from the valley is long, and the sun has been unkind this season." He reached out to help steady Frederick as the boy dismounted, his grip firm but reassuring. Around them, the stable bustled with quiet life: kittens prowling through the straw, swallows nesting in the rafters, the gentle rhythm of horses chewing their evening feed. Roland gestured to a bale of fresh-cut hay, emerald and fragrant. "Sit awhile before the formalities," the knight said, handing Frederick a waterskin. "A man should know the earth beneath his feet before he takes up steel. These walls have raised many a squire from boy to knight, like saplings growing toward the sun. Tonight, you need only breathe and rest. Tomorrow, we begin the work of growing." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Twilight's Formality" data-color="blue"> The sun had surrendered to twilight by the time Frederick reached the stables, the sky above the castle deepening to a bruised shade of indigo. Sir Roland awaited him at the entrance, a solitary figure in azure plate armor that caught the last pale light. The knight did not move as Frederick approached, standing as still as the stone columns that flanked him, his face shadowed by the helm he had not yet removed. "Frederick of Thornhaven," Roland said, his voice resonant and cold as steel left in winter snow. He did not offer his hand, nor step forward to take Thunder's reins. Instead, he observed, his eyes two chips of pale ice studying the boy with detached calculation. "You arrive at the appointed hour. Punctuality is the first virtue of service." The stable yard was quiet now, the other squires having retreated to the barracks. The air carried the sharp scent of night-blooming flowers and the metallic tang of dew on iron. Roland finally moved, his armor whispering like wind over water, and gestured toward the torch-lit interior. "Your predecessor failed to meet the standards of this house," the knight stated flatly, turning away. "The armor you will polish, the blades you will sharpen, the horses you will tend—they belong to a tradition heavier than stone. I do not offer welcome, boy. I offer duty. Follow, and keep your silence until spoken to. The night is young, and your instruction begins now." </nc-section>