<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. Sir Roland was an imposing man — tall, weathered, with a jaw like an anvil and eyes that had seen more battles than Frederick had seen summers. His armor was well-worn but immaculately maintained, each scratch and dent a testament to years of service. "You must be the squire," Sir Roland said, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder. He didn't smile, but there was a warmth buried somewhere beneath the gravel of his tone. He clasped Frederick's forearm in a grip that could have bent iron. "I am Sir Roland of Ashenmoor. Your father wrote to me. Said you were eager." Frederick straightened his back, trying to appear taller than he was. "Yes, sir. I've dreamed of training here since I was a boy." Sir Roland studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Dreams are well and good, lad. But it's the waking hours that forge a knight." He turned toward the stables and gestured for Frederick to follow. "See to your horse first. A knight who neglects his mount neglects himself. We'll talk over supper — if you've the stomach left after mucking these stalls." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Warmer Reception" data-color="green"> The stablehand had barely taken Thunder's reins when a hearty laugh rang out across the courtyard. Frederick turned to see a knight approaching with an easy, confident stride — his cloak billowing behind him, a goblet of something steaming in one hand. His face was scarred along the left cheek, but his smile was wide and genuine, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes. "By the old fire, they're sending them younger every year!" the knight exclaimed, clapping Frederick on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. "I'm Sir Roland. And you, I'd wager my best sword, are Frederick — the lad from the valley." "I — yes, sir," Frederick managed, steadying himself. Sir Roland leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "Between you and me, lad, you've arrived at the best possible time. The kitchen's just finished a roast that could make a dragon weep with envy." He winked and thrust the steaming goblet into Frederick's hands. "Spiced cider. Drink up. You look half-frozen and fully terrified." Frederick took a sip, and warmth spread through his chest like sunlight breaking through clouds. Perhaps this place wouldn't be so frightening after all. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: An Uneasy Introduction" data-color="blue"> Frederick was loosening Thunder's saddle when he felt eyes on him. He turned slowly. A knight stood at the entrance to the stables, arms folded across a breastplate engraved with a coiling serpent. His silver hair was cropped close to his skull, and his gaze was sharp — appraising — like a merchant evaluating livestock at market. "Frederick of Dunhallow," the knight said. It wasn't a question. "Yes, sir. And you are —" "Sir Roland." The knight stepped closer, his boots silent on the hay-strewn cobblestones. He circled Frederick once, slowly, then stopped directly in front of him. "You're smaller than I expected. Your father was a bear of a man." Frederick felt heat rise to his cheeks. "I intend to prove my worth through more than size, sir." Something flickered in Sir Roland's pale eyes — amusement, perhaps, or something harder to name. "Bold words for a boy who hasn't yet spent a night within these walls." He glanced at Thunder, then back at Frederick. "This castle has broken squires twice your size, lad. It chews them up and spits them back to their mothers. I tell you this not to frighten you, but because I'd rather you know the truth now than learn it bleeding in the training yard tomorrow." The silence between them stretched taut as a bowstring. Then Sir Roland turned on his heel. "Stall fourteen is empty. Settle your horse. Report to the great hall at the bell." Frederick watched him disappear into the gathering dusk, his heart hammering against his ribs. </nc-section>