<nc-section data-title="The Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted, the heavy scent of hay and horsehide filled my nostrils. A man stood by the stable doors, his plate armor scarred by years of combat. This was Sir Roland. He didn't offer a hand or a smile, but instead appraised me with eyes as cold as flint. "You're late, boy," he barked, his voice like grinding stones. "The Last Dragon won't wait for a squire who dallys at sunset. Stable your beast and meet me in the yard; we shall see if you have the stomach for what comes next." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="A Mentor's Grin" data-color="green"> I led Thunder toward the stalls, where a broad-shouldered knight was busy polishing a saddle. He looked up, a weathered grin breaking through his salt-and-pepper beard. "So, the new squire finally arrives!" Sir Roland exclaimed, tossing a rag aside. He stepped forward and gave me a firm clap on the shoulder that nearly sent me to my knees. "Welcome to the fold, Frederick. Don't look so nervous. The castle is old and the legends are daunting, but a sharp mind and a steady hand are all a man truly needs here." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Shadows of the Past" data-color="blue"> The stables were quiet, save for the rhythmic stomping of hooves. Out of the deepening shadows emerged Sir Roland, his movements silent despite his stature. He looked at me, then at my horse, his expression unreadable. "Thunder is a fine name for a beast, Frederick," he said softly, his gaze fixed on the darkening horizon. "But here, silence is often more valuable than noise. The chronicles speak of the dragon’s return, and if you are to be a part of that history, you must learn to listen to the whispers of the stone walls." </nc-section>