<nc-section data-title="The Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted, the heavy scent of hay and horsehide filled the air. A man clad in worn leather and polished steel stepped from the shadows of the stable eaves. Sir Roland didn't smile; his face was a map of scars earned in the dragon wars. "You're late, boy," he barked, his voice like grinding stones. "Thunder looks winded, and a squire who exhausts his mount before the sun sets is a squire who walks to his death. Strip the gear and rub him down. Your training begins when the horse is tended, and not a moment sooner." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="A Mentor's Grin" data-color="green"> I was still patting Thunder’s neck when a boisterous laugh echoed off the stone walls. Sir Roland leaned against a stable post, tossing an apple in the air before catching it with a practiced snap. "So, the pride of the valley has finally arrived!" the knight shouted, stepping forward to clasp my shoulder with a gauntleted hand. "You have your father’s eyes, Frederick, but let's hope you have more sense in a saddle. Come, leave the beast to the stablehands for tonight. We have much to discuss before the dragons wake." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Silent Observer" data-color="blue"> The rhythm of the castle was a dull roar of activity, but the stables remained a pocket of cool quiet. Sir Roland was already there, meticulously checking the shoes of a massive warhorse. He didn't look up as I approached, yet he acknowledged my presence with a sharp nod. "The road was clear, I trust?" he asked quietly, finally turning to reveal a gaze that seemed to weigh my very soul. "The Last Dragon is restless, Frederick. The time for childhood is over. Bind your horse and follow me; the King is waiting for news from the border." </nc-section