<nc-section data-title="Version 1: Sir Roland's Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted Thunder near the stables, a towering figure stepped out from the shadow of the gatehouse. Sir Roland was every bit the knight the stories had promised — broad-shouldered, clad in polished chainmail, with a longsword hanging at his hip as naturally as a limb. His weathered face broke into a grin as he clasped my shoulder with a gauntleted hand. "So you're the one they sent me," he said, his voice deep and rumbling like distant thunder. "Frederick, is it? You're smaller than I expected." I straightened my back, trying to add an inch to my height. "I may be small, Sir Roland, but I'm willing." He laughed — a warm, booming sound that echoed off the stable walls. "Willing is a start, lad. Willing keeps you alive long enough to become able." He took Thunder's reins from my hands with a practiced ease and handed them off to a stable boy who had appeared as if from nowhere. "Come. Let's get some food in you before I show you where you'll sleep. Tomorrow, your real life begins." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Cold Reception" data-color="green"> The stables smelled of hay and leather, and I was struggling to loosen Thunder's saddle when a voice cut through the evening air like a blade. "You're late." I turned to find Sir Roland leaning against the stable door, arms crossed over his breastplate. He was not what I had imagined. Where I had pictured a gallant, shining hero, I found instead a man carved from hardship — a jagged scar running from his left temple to his jaw, his dark eyes sharp and appraising. He looked me over the way a butcher examines a cut of meat. "The road from Ashford was longer than the maps suggested, sir," I offered, bowing my head respectfully. "The road is exactly as long as it has always been," Sir Roland replied flatly. "You were simply slow." He pushed off from the doorframe and walked past me, pausing only to glance at Thunder. "At least your horse is decent. Stable him properly — I won't have a squire who can't care for his own mount. Find me in the great hall when you're done. Don't keep me waiting again." Then he was gone, his boots crunching against the gravel, and I was left alone with the sinking feeling that earning this knight's respect would be the hardest thing I had ever done. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: An Unexpected Kindness" data-color="blue"> I had barely slid off Thunder's back when I noticed the man kneeling in the mud beside the stables, his hands deep in a poultice pressed against the swollen leg of an old mare. He wore no armor, just a simple linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and I might have mistaken him for a stable hand if not for the signet ring on his finger — the silver dragon of a sworn knight. "Hand me that cloth, would you?" he said without looking up. I grabbed the rag draped over the stable door and passed it to him. He wiped his hands, gave the mare a gentle pat on the neck, and finally stood to face me. Sir Roland was neither imposing nor fearsome. He was of average height, with kind hazel eyes and a dusting of grey in his auburn beard. He smiled as though meeting me was the best part of his day. "You must be Frederick. I've been looking forward to your arrival." He extended his hand — not for a formal greeting, but for a genuine handshake, as though I were an equal. "I hope you don't mind that your first lesson has already begun." I blinked. "Sir?" He gestured to the mare behind him. "A knight who cannot show tenderness to a wounded creature has no business wielding a sword. Strength without compassion is just violence." He placed a hand on my back and guided me toward the castle. "Come, lad. Let me show you your new home." </nc-section>