<nc-section data-title="The Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted and led Thunder toward the hay-scented shadows of the stables, a man as broad as an oak tree stepped into my path. His armor was scarred and lacked the polish I had expected of a king's guard. "You’re late, boy," Sir Roland barked, his voice sounding like grinding stones. He didn't offer a hand, only a cold, measuring stare that made my squire’s tunic feel far too thin for the mountain air. "The stables are for those who work, not those who preen. Strip the saddle and meet me in the yard; let's see if you're made of more than just soft silk and stories." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Wayfarer's Greeting" data-color="green"> I was still patting Thunder’s neck when a hearty laugh echoed off the stable walls. A man with graying temples and a jovial face approached, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. This was Sir Roland, a legend of the border wars, yet he stood before me without a hint of haughtiness. "Welcome to the Crag, Frederick!" he exclaimed, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. "You've the look of your father about you, though perhaps a bit more dust from the road. Get that beast settled and find the cook; a squire’s first duty is to ensure he has the strength to lift a practice blade." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Silent Appraisal" data-color="blue"> Sir Roland was waiting by the hitching post, his silhouette sharp against the deepening twilight. He didn't speak at first, watching with keen, hawk-like eyes as I secured Thunder’s lead. There was a grace to his stillness that commanded immediate respect. "The road was long, but the real journey begins within these walls," he said quietly, his tone melodic yet firm. He gestured toward the flickering torches of the main keep. "The Last Dragon is not found in songs, Squire, but in the sweat of the forge and the discipline of the mind. Follow me." </nc-section>