<nc-section data-title="The Shadow of Sir Roland" data-color="red"> I dismounted, my boots hitting the packed earth with a dull thud, the dust of the journey still swirling around my heels. The stable yard was damp and shadowy as twilight deepened. A tall silhouette emerged from the gloom of the tack room, the air around him seeming to grow colder. It was Sir Roland. He didn't smile; his face was set like granite beneath his helm, and his eyes held a fire that unnerved me. He pointed a gauntleted finger at the heavy pack tied to Thunder's saddle. "You're late, boy. The Commander is expecting your report, and time is a luxury we cannot afford." <nc-section data-title="The Weight of Steel" data-color="green"> Thunder snorted, stepping into the water trough to cool his fevered flanks. A deep, gravelly voice cut through the evening soundscape. "Easy, beast." The voice belonged to Sir Roland. He leaned casually against a wooden pillar, his polished plate armor catching the last of the sun like reflected gold. He looked more like a weathered tree than a warrior, his shoulders slumped slightly with the weight of years, yet his grip on the spear at his side was iron-tight. "Welcome to the Stone Ward, Frederick," he said, his voice cracking slightly with age. "Are you ready to learn the weight of a sword, or did you ride here just for the warm hay?" <nc-section data-title="The Old Guard" data-color="blue"> The lanterns of the castle had yet to flicker to life, leaving the courtyard bathed in an unnatural, pale blue twilight. From the shadows of the stable archway, Sir Roland stepped out, the silence of the night clinging to him like a second skin. He was a massive man, his armor etched with the faded scratches of countless battles. He didn't approach to shake my hand; instead, he simply looked me up and down, his expression unreadable. "Your horse is good," he noted, his tone flat. "But can you withstand the cold? Because the war drums don't sleep, and neither does the enemy."