<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Iron Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted Thunder near the weathered stables, the sme of hay and leather barely masked the metallic tang of armor polish. A towering figure emerged from the shadows of the stalls—Sir Roland, his plate mail gleaming crimson in the dying light, as though already stained with the blood of battles to come. His eyes, sharp and assessing, raked over my travel-worn tunic and mud-caked boots. "So you are the boy who thinks himself worthy of the blade," he growled, his hand resting heavy on the pommel of his sword. "The castle does not coddle dreamers, Frederick. By dawn, you'll learn steel demands more than glory—it demands sacrifice." His gauntleted hand gripped my shoulder with crushing strength, and I felt the first tremor of fear mix with my excitement. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Earthly Greeting" data-color="green"> Thunder's hooves crunched softly against the gravel path leading to the stables, where the evening air smelled of fresh straw and living earth. Sir Roland awaited me not in his full armor, but wearing simple woolens, his sleeves rolled up as he brushed down a chestnut mare. When he turned, his weathered face broke into a warm smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Welcome, young Frederick," he said, his voice rich and steady as oak. He gestured to the stalls around us, where horses dozed contentedly and swallows nested in the rafters. "A squire's journey begins not with the sword, but with understanding the beasts who carry us and the land that sustains us. Come—help me feed these gentle souls, and tell me of your ride through the valley. There will be time enough for steel once you've learned the quiet strength of service." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Twilight Protocol" data-color="blue"> The stable yard lay steeped in twilight shadows as I brought Thunder to a halt, the sky above bleeding from amber into deep indigo. Sir Roland stood at the stable entrance, his silhouette etched against the lantern light, his surcoat—the deep blue of the evening guard—hanging unadorned from his shoulders. He did not smile as I approached; instead, he executed a slight, measured nod that spoke of generations of tradition. "Frederick of Thornwood," he intoned, my name falling like a stone into still water. "You arrive at the threshold between day and duty. The path of service is long, and the dragon's sleep grows restless." His voice carried the chill of the coming night as he gestured toward the darkened stalls. "Your training begins not with glory, but with responsibility. See to your mount, then follow me. The castle keeps its own hours, and we dare not keep the night waiting." </nc-section>