<nc-section data-title="The Crimson Reckoning" data-color="red"> The great iron gates of Valcrest loomed against the twilight, looking less like a gateway and more like the jagged teeth of some sleeping beast. Thunder shied slightly as the wind whistled through the merlons. Before I could even draw the reins, a heavy boot crunched on the stones behind me. I turned to see a knight clad in crimson plate, his shield a stark contrast to the darkening sky. Sir Roland. His breath plumed in the cold air like smoke from a forge. He did not smile, and his eyes were dark, piercing through me as if he were counting the breaths remaining in my mortal coil. "You bring a fine beast," he grunted, gesturing vaguely toward the stables with a gauntleted hand. "But we have little time for livestock. Come. The hunt begins at dawn." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Verdant Warning" data-color="green"> My arrival was heralded not by a trumpet, but by the scent of damp earth and ancient moss. Thunder stamped his hooves, restless against the twilight chill. Approaching the stables, I saw they were built of dark timber, slowly being reclaimed by a thick, vibrant ivy that clawed at the mortar. There, leaning against a support beam, sat Sir Roland. His cloak was the color of a deep forest, patterned with the faint, ghostly outline of leaves. He held a lantern whose light danced with an unnatural, green luminescence. He offered a weathered smile, though it did not reach his weary eyes. "Welcome to the last outpost of the green," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "The castle holds weight on its foundations, Squire. Tread lightly, or the rot will take you." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="The Icy Oath" data-color="blue"> As I dismounted, the world seemed to grow dimmer, the sunset drained away by the grey clouds gathering on the horizon. The stables loomed ahead, dark and cold. A figure emerged from the shadows, moving with the fluid grace of a wolf. Sir Roland. He wore no bright colors, only plain, hammered steel that looked like it had been forged in the heart of an iceberg. He carried no torch, yet light seemed to emanate from his pauldrons. He studied me with a cold, clinical detachment. "Age seven," he stated, ignoring the fact that I was twenty. "A rare start for a squire. I hope your blood runs hot enough to warm the steel, because the chill you will face here does not let go." </nc-section>