Here are three distinct prose versions of Frederick’s encounter with Sir Roland, each with a unique tone and atmosphere: --- ### **Version 1 (Red) – *Tense and Mysterious*** <nc-section data-title="The Knight’s Warning" data-color="red"> The stable yard was eerily quiet, save for the distant clatter of armor and the low murmur of servants. Thunder’s hooves crunched on the gravel as I dismounted, my fingers brushing the hilt of my dagger—a habit I’d picked up on the road. A shadow detached itself from the stable’s arched doorway, and a man stepped forward, his plate armor gleaming dully in the fading light. Sir Roland was not what I expected. His face was lined with scars, his dark eyes sharp as a hawk’s. He moved with the quiet precision of a predator, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "Frederick of Blackthorn, I presume?" His voice was low, rough as gravel. "You’re late. The others arrived at dawn." I swallowed hard. "The roads were treacherous, sir. Bandits near the river—" He cut me off with a sharp gesture. "Bandits? Or something worse?" His gaze flicked to the horizon, where the last sliver of sun bled into the sky. "This castle isn’t just a training ground, boy. It’s a fortress. And fortresses don’t stand empty unless there’s a reason." He leaned in, his breath smelling of iron and old wine. "Keep your wits about you. Not all who wear the king’s colors are his friends." Before I could ask what he meant, a horn blared from the battlements—a deep, mournful note that sent a chill down my spine. Sir Roland’s expression darkened. "That’s the watchtower. Something’s wrong." He turned on his heel, his cloak billowing behind him. "Follow me. And *don’t* lag behind." I glanced at Thunder, then back at the knight’s retreating form. The stable hands had vanished. The castle loomed above me, its towers clawing at the bruised sky. Whatever welcome I’d imagined, this was not it. </nc-section> --- ### **Version 2 (Green) – *Warm and Humorous*** <nc-section data-title="A Knight’s Lessons" data-color="green"> The stable yard smelled of hay, leather, and the faint tang of manure—homey scents that made my shoulders relax for the first time in days. I’d just handed Thunder’s reins to a gap-toothed stable boy when a booming voice cut through the air. "Ah! The prodigal squire arrives at last!" I turned to see a broad-shouldered knight striding toward me, his armor polished to a mirror shine, his mustache waxed into impressive curls. He clapped me on the back hard enough to rattle my teeth, grinning like a man who’d just won a wager. "Frederick, isn’t it? By the gods, you’re a scrawny thing! Did they feed you nothing but gruel in Blackthorn?" I rubbed my shoulder, grinning despite myself. "Sir Roland, I take it?" "The one and only!" He threw an arm around my shoulders and steered me toward the castle’s grand hall. "You’ve missed the morning drills, the noon feast, and—most tragically—the ale tasting. But fear not! I’ve saved you a seat at the *real* training: how to survive a knight’s humor *and* his swordplay." I laughed, but my stomach twisted. "Sir, I was told this was a serious posting. The king’s elite—" Roland waved a hand. "Serious? Pfft. Life’s too short for seriousness! Though"—his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper—"between you and me, the captain *does* have a stick up his—" A sharp cough interrupted him. We turned to see a stern-faced woman in a captain’s tabard glaring at us from the hall’s entrance. Roland straightened instantly, his mustache twitching. "Ah! Captain Elara! Just, uh, welcoming the new squire!" The captain’s eyes narrowed. "Sir Roland. The armory. *Now.*" Roland saluted with a flourish, then leaned in to mutter, "Run along, Frederick. Find the kitchens—ask for Mistress Hilda. She’ll feed you proper. And *avoid* the east tower. The last squire who went in there… well, let’s just say he’s now a very *short* squire." With that, he strode off, whistling tunelessly. I watched him go, equal parts amused and bewildered. The castle loomed ahead, its halls echoing with laughter, clanking armor, and the distant sound of a lute. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. </nc-section> --- ### **Version 3 (Blue) – *Epic and Poetic*** <nc-section data-title="The Oath of Steel" data-color="blue"> The stables were a cathedral of shadow and flickering torchlight, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and the musk of warhorses. I had just loosened Thunder’s girth when the silence broke—not with a voice, but with the *song* of steel. A blade, honed to a razor’s edge, slid from its sheath in a single, fluid motion. I turned. Sir Roland stood before me, his armor etched with runes that glowed faintly in the dim light, as if carved by starlight itself. His sword, *Dawn’s Edge*, rested across his palms, its blade etched with the sigil of the old kings. The torchlight caught the steel, and for a heartbeat, it burned like a fragment of the sun. "You carry the weight of expectation, Frederick of Blackthorn," he said, his voice resonant as a war horn. "I see it in your stance, in the way your fingers hover near your dagger. You fear you are not ready." I exhaled, my breath misting in the cold air. "I fear I will fail." Roland sheathed his sword with a motion so precise it seemed part of a dance. "Failure is the anvil upon which greatness is forged." He stepped closer, his gauntleted hand resting on my shoulder. "This castle is more than stone and steel. It is the last bastion of an age dying in fire and shadow. The dragons are gone, but their legacy lingers—in the blood of men, in the songs of bards, in the *choice* we make when the world demands we kneel." He gestured to the castle’s highest tower, where a single light burned like a beacon. "That is the Hall of Echoes. There, the greatest knights of the realm once swore their oaths. Tonight, you will stand before the hearth of kings and speak the words that will bind you to this path. Not as a squire. As a *warden*." A gust of wind howled through the courtyard, extinguishing half the torches. In the sudden dark, Roland’s eyes gleamed like embers. "But first, you must prove you are worthy. The trials begin at midnight. Do not be late." With that, he turned and vanished into the night, his cloak billowing like the wings of a raven. I stood alone, the weight of his words pressing upon me like a crown of thorns. Above, the stars wheeled across the sky, indifferent to the fate of men. I clenched my fists. The last dragon’s legacy awaited. </nc-section>