Here are three alternate prose sections for your story, each with a distinct tone and style: --- ### **Version 1 (red)** <nc-section data-title="The Knight’s Welcome" data-color="red"> The stable yard was alive with the clatter of hooves and the lowing of cattle, the air thick with the scent of hay and sweat. I dismounted Thunder, my legs stiff from the long ride, and led him toward the water trough. Before I could even brush the dust from my tunic, a shadow fell across my path. A towering figure stood before me, his armor gleaming dully in the fading light. Sir Roland, the castle’s most renowned knight, crossed his arms over his broad chest, his piercing gaze locking onto mine. His face was weathered, lined with the scars of countless battles, but his eyes held a sharp intelligence that made me straighten my posture instinctively. “You’re late,” he said, his voice a deep rumble. “The sun set an hour ago.” I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around Thunder’s reins. “The road was longer than I expected, sir.” Sir Roland studied me for a long moment, then let out a gruff chuckle. “A squire who speaks the truth. That’s a rare thing.” He stepped forward, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Welcome to Blackthorn Castle, Frederick. You’ll learn soon enough that punctuality is the least of your worries here.” His grip was firm, almost crushing, but there was no malice in it—only the unspoken promise of the trials to come. </nc-section> --- ### **Version 2 (green)** <nc-section data-title="A Warm Handshake" data-color="green"> The stable yard was quiet, save for the occasional snort of a horse and the distant murmur of servants. I had just finished unsaddling Thunder when a voice, warm and rich like aged whiskey, called out from behind me. “You must be Frederick.” I turned to see a man leaning against the stable door, his arms crossed over a well-worn leather jerkin. His dark hair was streaked with silver, and his face bore the kind lines of someone who had laughed often and fought harder. Sir Roland, I realized—though he looked nothing like the fearsome warrior I had imagined. He pushed off the doorframe and strode toward me, his hand outstretched. “Sir Roland,” he said, his grip firm but not overbearing. “You’ve got a fine horse there. Thunder, is it?” I nodded, suddenly aware of how young and inexperienced I must seem. “Yes, sir. He’s been with me since I was a boy.” Sir Roland’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “A good horse is like a good friend—loyal, steady, and always there when you need him.” He glanced toward the castle, where the last light of dusk painted the towers in gold. “You’ll need both before your training is done.” There was no threat in his words, only the quiet certainty of a man who had seen squires come and go. And for the first time since arriving, I felt something ease in my chest—not fear, but the faintest spark of belonging. </nc-section> --- ### **Version 3 (blue)** <nc-section data-title="The First Test" data-color="blue"> The stable yard was a maze of shadows as the sun dipped below the horizon. I had just finished rubbing down Thunder when a voice cut through the twilight like a blade. “You’re the new squire.” I turned to see a man standing in the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the fading light. Sir Roland. His armor was plain but well-kept, the kind of practical gear worn by a knight who valued function over ornament. His eyes, however, were anything but plain—they studied me with the precision of a man who missed nothing. I straightened, my fingers brushing the hilt of the dagger at my belt. “Frederick, sir. At your service.” Sir Roland didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just tilted his head slightly, as if assessing whether I was worth his time. “Service,” he repeated, the word heavy with meaning. “That’s what this is about, boy. Not glory. Not fame. Service.” He stepped forward, close enough that I could see the faint scar running from his temple to his jawline. “You’ll learn that soon enough. But first”—he reached into his belt and tossed something at me—a small, worn wooden practice sword—“let’s see if you can even hold a blade.” I caught it, my pulse quickening. This wasn’t a welcome. It was a challenge. </nc-section>