<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Arrival" data-color="red"> As I reigned in Thunder, his breath misting in the cool evening air, a figure detached himself from the shadows of the stables. He was a mountain of a man, clad in dented steel plate that seemed to drink the last of the sunlight. A scar, pale and jagged, cut through one eyebrow and disappeared into his grizzled beard. "So, you're the new squire," the knight rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. He looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on my travel-stained tunic. "Frederick." It wasn't a question. "I am Sir Roland. You'll find no soft hands or gentle words here. This castle forges warriors, not poets. Now, see to your horse. A man who neglects his steed neglects his own life." He turned without another word, his cape snapping behind him as he strode toward the armory, leaving me with the sharp scent of ozone and the weight of his disapproval. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Arrival" data-color="green"> I guided Thunder toward the large, timber-framed stables, the sweet smell of hay and manure a welcome change from the dusty road. A knight was there, his armor set aside, humming a soft tune as he curried a beautiful dapple-grey mare. He looked up as I approached, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You must be Frederick," he said, his voice warm and steady, like a well-worn leather saddle. "I am Sir Roland. Welcome to Dragon's Keep." He gestured to the mare. "This is Willow. She's a bit particular, but she has a good heart. Much like most things in this world." He offered a kind smile. "Don't mind the stone faces of some of the others. They forget what it's like to be young and full of fire. Get your stallion settled, and then come find me in the great hall. The stew is good tonight." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Arrival" data-color="blue"> The castle gates groaned shut behind me, the sound echoing in the growing twilight. Near the stables, a knight stood motionless, staring out at the darkening hills. His armor was immaculate, though I could see the faint web of hairline fractures across the breastplate, like a map of old battles. He turned as I dismounted, his movements precise and economical. His face was handsome but weary, his eyes a pale, washed-out blue. "Frederick," he stated, his voice quiet but carrying clearly on the still air. "I am Sir Roland. I am in charge of your training." He paused, his gaze drifting past me, as if watching for something on the horizon. "Your journey is over. Another is about to begin. Tend to your horse. Your duties start at dawn." With that, he gave a short, formal nod and walked away, his footsteps making no sound on the cobblestones. </nc-section>