Here are three alternate prose sections that continue the story, each with a distinct tone and style: --- ### **Version 1 (red) – Tense and Mysterious** <nc-section data-title="The Knight’s Warning" data-color="red"> The iron-shod hooves of Thunder clattered against the cobblestones as I reined him to a halt near the stables. The air smelled of hay and damp stone, thick with the scent of sweat and leather. Before I could dismount, a shadow detached itself from the stable’s arched doorway—a towering figure clad in blackened steel, his tabard bearing the crimson sigil of a snarling wolf. Sir Roland. His face was a map of old scars, his dark eyes sharp as a blade. He did not smile. "Frederick of Blackthorn, I presume?" His voice was a low growl, like distant thunder. "You’re late. The Master-at-Arms does not suffer tardiness." I swallowed hard, sliding from Thunder’s back. "The roads were treacherous, sir. Bandits near the—" "Bandits?" His gloved hand shot out, gripping my shoulder with bruising force. "You think bandits are your greatest concern here?" His gaze flicked toward the castle’s highest tower, where a single, flickering light burned like a watchful eye. "The last squire who arrived late vanished before dawn. No trace. No scream. Just… gone." A cold dread coiled in my stomach. "What happened to him?" Sir Roland’s grip tightened. "That’s not a question you ask. Not yet." He released me, stepping back. "Stable your horse. Then report to the armory. And Frederick?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Watch your back. The walls here have ears—and teeth." As he turned away, the torchlight caught the edge of a fresh, jagged scar running from his temple to his jaw. One that hadn’t been there in the tales I’d heard. I wondered what—or *who*—had given it to him. </nc-section> --- ### **Version 2 (green) – Whimsical and Lighthearted** <nc-section data-title="A Warm Welcome" data-color="green"> Thunder’s ears twitched as we trotted into the stable yard, his nostrils flaring at the scent of fresh oats and polished tack. Before I could even slide from the saddle, a booming laugh echoed off the stone walls. "By the gods, boy, you ride like you’ve got the hounds of hell nipping at your heels!" A broad-shouldered knight in a forest-green surcoat clapped his gauntleted hands together, his grin as bright as the setting sun. "Sir Roland, at your service—and don’t you dare call me ‘sir’ unless you’ve a mind to polish my armor for a week!" I grinned back, dismounting with a bit more grace than I felt. "Frederick of Blackthorn, sir. Er—I mean, *Roland*." He barked another laugh, clapping me on the back hard enough to nearly knock the wind from me. "Good lad! And none of that ‘sir’ nonsense. We’re all family here—well, except for the cook. *She’s* terrifying." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I think she’s half-goblin." A stable boy—no older than ten, with a mop of unruly brown hair—scampered forward to take Thunder’s reins. "I’ll see to your horse, m’lord! Name’s Timmy!" Roland ruffled the boy’s hair. "Timmy here’s the best hand with a brush this side of the kingdom. Your Thunder’ll be spoiled rotten by morning." He turned back to me, his expression softening. "Now, let’s get you settled. The armory’s this way—though I’d wager you’d rather see the kitchens first. Am I right?" My stomach growled on cue, and Roland’s laughter rang out again, rich and warm. "That’s the spirit! A squire’s got to keep his strength up—especially if he’s to survive *my* training." As we walked, I couldn’t help but notice the way the other squires and knights greeted Roland—with respect, yes, but also with easy camaraderie. This was a man who led not just with his sword, but with his heart. For the first time since leaving home, I felt like I’d found where I belonged. </nc-section> --- ### **Version 3 (blue) – Epic and Grand** <nc-section data-title="The Oath of Steel" data-color="blue"> The castle loomed before me, its ancient stones carved with the stories of a thousand battles. Thunder’s hooves struck the drawbridge like the tolling of a war drum, echoing through the courtyard. Then—silence. A figure stepped from the shadows of the stable archway, his presence commanding even before he spoke. Sir Roland, the Black Wolf of Eldermere, stood tall as an oak, his armor etched with runes that glowed faintly in the twilight. His cloak, woven from the hides of fallen beasts, billowed behind him like a storm cloud. "Frederick of Blackthorn," he intoned, his voice deep as the roots of the world. "You stand upon the threshold of destiny. The path before you is forged in fire and tempered by blood. Do you still choose to walk it?" I dismounted, my boots hitting the ground with purpose. "I do." Roland’s gaze locked onto mine, unyielding. "Then kneel." I dropped to one knee, my head bowed. The knight unsheathed his sword—a blade said to have been quenched in dragon’s blood—and pressed the flat of it against my shoulder. "By the oath of steel and the will of the kingdom, I bind you to this house. You will bleed for it. You will fight for it. And if the gods will it, you will *die* for it." His voice rose, carrying across the courtyard. "Do you swear fealty to the crown, to the code of the knight, and to the brotherhood of this order?" "I swear it," I vowed, my voice steady despite the weight of the moment. Roland sheathed his sword and offered me his hand. As I rose, he gripped my forearm in the warrior’s clasp. "Then rise, Frederick of Blackthorn, Squire of Eldermere. Your training begins at dawn." Around us, the castle seemed to hold its breath. Somewhere in the distance, a horn sounded—a deep, resonant call that sent a shiver down my spine. The last dragon had fallen centuries ago. But tonight, the old world felt alive once more. </nc-section>