Here are three alternate prose versions of Frederick’s encounter with Sir Roland, each with a distinct tone and color: --- ### **Version 1 (Red) – Tense & 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—an old habit from 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 flint. A jagged wound ran from his temple to his jaw, half-hidden beneath a thick beard. He did not smile. *"You’re late,"* he said, voice rough as gravel. *"The castle’s not what it seems, boy. The king’s men whisper of things in the dark—things that shouldn’t be."* He glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting something to lurk in the shadows. *"Stay sharp. And don’t trust the dragons."* A chill ran down my spine. *Dragons?* The word hung between us, heavy as a curse. Before I could ask, a horn blared from the battlements, and Sir Roland’s expression darkened. *"Come. The master of arms waits. And he doesn’t like to be kept waiting."* I followed, my pulse quickening. The castle loomed ahead, its towers clawing at the blood-red sky. Whatever awaited me inside, I knew one thing for certain—this was no ordinary training. </nc-section> --- ### **Version 2 (Green) – Warm & Welcoming** <nc-section data-title="A Friend in the Stables" data-color="green"> The stable yard bustled with activity—grooms brushing down horses, squires laughing as they carried saddles, the rich scent of hay and leather filling the air. I patted Thunder’s neck, whispering reassurances as a broad-shouldered man in polished armor strode toward me, his hand outstretched. *"Ah! You must be Frederick,"* he boomed, his voice deep but warm. *"Sir Roland, at your service. Welcome to Blackthorn Castle!"* His grip was firm, his smile genuine. Unlike the stern knights I’d imagined, he had a twinkle in his eye, as if he carried a secret joke. *"You’ve got a fine horse here,"* he said, nodding at Thunder. *"Strong legs, good spirit. You’ll need both where we’re headed."* He clapped me on the back, steering me toward the castle’s inner courtyard. *"The master of arms is a hard taskmaster, but fair. And if you’ve got half the grit I’ve heard about, you’ll do just fine."* As we walked, he pointed out landmarks—the armory, the great hall, the training grounds where squires sparred under the watchful eyes of veterans. *"First lesson?"* he said, grinning. *"Never let them see you sweat. Second lesson? Always keep a dagger hidden. You never know when you’ll need it."* I laughed, some of the tension easing from my shoulders. Maybe this place wouldn’t be so bad after all. </nc-section> --- ### **Version 3 (Blue) – Eerie & Foreshadowing** <nc-section data-title="The Knight Who Knew Too Much" data-color="blue"> The stable yard was bathed in the cold blue light of dusk, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and iron. Thunder’s breath steamed in the chill as I dismounted, my boots sinking slightly into the mud. A figure emerged from the stables—a knight, his armor blackened as if scorched by fire, his movements slow, deliberate. Sir Roland did not speak at first. He studied me with eyes that seemed to see *through* me, as if weighing my soul. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low rasp, like wind through a graveyard. *"You’ve come at an interesting time, Frederick."* His gaze flickered toward the castle’s highest tower, where a single light burned like a watchful eye. *"The last dragon was slain a century ago. Or so they say."* A bitter smile twisted his lips. *"But the king’s men still hunt shadows. And the shadows… hunt back."* He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. *"They say the old magic is returning. That the dragons were never truly gone."* His hand rested on the hilt of his sword—a blade etched with strange, swirling runes. *"Stay close to me, boy. And whatever you do… don’t go near the dungeons."* A distant howl echoed from the forest beyond the walls. Sir Roland’s expression darkened. *"Come. The master of arms awaits. And time is running out."* </nc-section>