<nc-section data-title="The Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted, the heavy scent of hay and horsehide filled my senses. A man with shoulders as broad as an oak and a face scarred by years of combat stepped out from the shadows of the stables. It was Sir Roland. He didn't offer a hand, only a piercing gaze that seemed to weigh my very soul. "You're late, boy," he growled, his voice like grinding stones. "Thunder may be fast, but in this castle, discipline is faster. Rub down your mount and meet me in the courtyard. Your training begins with the dawn, and I do not tolerate weakness." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Knight's Appraisal" data-color="green"> I was barely off my saddle when a hearty chuckle echoed against the stone walls. Sir Roland leaned against a wooden post, polishing a piece of bridle leather with a rhythmic calm. He looked less like the terrifying warrior of legend and more like a seasoned mentor. "Easy there, lad," he said, flashing a brief, crooked smile. "The castle isn't going anywhere. You've got the look of your father in your eyes, but we'll see if you've got his arm for a broadsword. Get some oats for that stallion of yours; he's earned them more than you have today." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Duty and Dust" data-color="blue"> The clatter of Thunder’s hooves on the cobblestones died away as I reached the stable doors. Sir Roland was already there, waiting in silence, his silver armor reflecting the dying embers of the sunlight. He gave a sharp nod of acknowledgment, his expression unreadable. "The squire Frederick, I presume," he stated, more a fact than a question. "The Last Dragon’s shadow grows long, and we have little time for pleasantries. Stable your horse and report to the armory. A knight is only as good as the steel he cares for, and yours looks dusty from the road." </nc-section>