<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Trial" data-color="red"> The stables smelled of leather and iron as I dismounted, my boots kicking up dust from the blood-red clay. Sir Roland emerged from the shadows between stalls, his armor scarred from countless battles, eyes burning like embers in the torchlight. He did not smile as he approached Thunder, running a gauntleted hand along the horse's flank with surprising gentleness before fixing me with a stare that made my blood run cold. "So you are the boy who thinks himself worthy to hold a blade," he said, his voice gravel scraping against stone. He drew his sword—not in threat, but inspection—and let the steel gleam inches from my face. "The stables are where we learn a squire's true measure. Not on the tournament field, not in the great hall, but here, where the beasts trust you or they don't. Where you work until your hands bleed." He sheathed the blade with a sharp click. "Your training begins now. No rest. No welcome feast. Take Thunder to the third stall and start grooming him. I will return in one hour. If he is not spotless, you may return to whatever village you crawled from." He turned and walked away, his red cloak disappearing into the gathering dusk, leaving me alone with the weight of his expectations crushing down upon my shoulders. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Welcome" data-color="green"> I guided Thunder toward the stable doors, where the scent of fresh hay and mint mingled with the evening air, and found Sir Roland leaning against the wooden post, peeling an apple with a small knife. He wore no armor—only a simple tunic of forest green, his beard braided with small wooden beads that clicked softly in the breeze. When he saw us approach, he straightened, and a warm, crinkling smile spread across his weathered face. "Ah, Frederick!" he called out, his voice rich and earthy as he strode forward to take Thunder's reins with practiced ease. "Welcome to Greenhaven Castle. I am Roland, though the lads call me 'Old Mossback' when they think I cannot hear." He laughed, a sound like rustling leaves, and gestured toward the stables where climbing ivy made the stone walls look like part of the meadow. "We keep the best oats here, and the horses know it. Come, let us water your fine steed and get you settled. The other squires are already at supper, but I saved you a place at my table. A knight cannot learn on an empty stomach, after all." He clapped me on the shoulder with a hand like tree bark—rough but kind—and together we led Thunder into the dappled green light of the stable, where birds nested in the rafters and the promise of new growth seemed to hang in every breath of air. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Oath" data-color="blue"> Twilight had settled in violet-blue hues across the courtyard when I brought Thunder to a halt before the stables. Sir Roland stood waiting, motionless as a statue carved from winter ice, his silver hair unbound and catching the last light of dusk. He wore the deep blue surcoat of the Order of the Azure Shield, and his eyes, when they met mine, were the color of storm clouds over the sea. "Young Frederick," he said, his voice quiet but carrying like a bell across water. He stepped forward, not to take the reins, but to place a gauntleted hand over my heart. "You stand now where generations have stood before you, on the threshold between who you were and who you must become." The stables behind him were silent, the horses watching with dark, liquid eyes. "I am Sir Roland, Keeper of the Squires, and I greet you not with celebration, but with truth. The path ahead is long, and lonely, and lined with sacrifice. But if you enter these stables tonight, you enter as a promise—to your king, to your code, and to the dragon that sleeps beneath these mountains." He removed his hand slowly, his expression unreadable. "Dismount. The blue hour belongs to duty. Tomorrow, we begin." </nc-section>