<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 shadows of the gatehouse. Sir Roland was every bit the knight the stories had made him — broad-shouldered, square-jawed, with a jagged scar that traced a path from his left temple to the corner of his mouth. His armor was polished but well-worn, a testament to countless battles fought and survived. "You must be Frederick," he said, his voice a deep rumble like distant thunder. He extended a gauntleted hand and gripped mine with surprising firmness. "I've been expecting you. Your father wrote ahead — said you were eager, if a bit green." I swallowed hard, unsure whether to feel proud or embarrassed. "Yes, Sir Roland. I'm ready to learn." He studied me for a long moment, his dark eyes appraising. Then, without warning, he smiled — a crooked, weathered thing that softened his fearsome face. "Good. Take your horse to the stablehand, then meet me in the training yard. We begin tonight." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Humble Introduction" data-color="green"> The stables smelled of hay and leather, and I was struggling to loosen Thunder's saddle when a calm voice spoke behind me. "Easy now — lift the buckle before you pull. You'll pinch the poor beast otherwise." I turned to find a man leaning against the stable door, arms crossed, watching me with quiet amusement. He wore no armor, just a simple linen tunic and muddied boots, and I might have mistaken him for a farmhand were it not for the sword hanging casually at his hip. Its pommel was shaped like a roaring lion — the sigil of the king's sworn knights. "Sir Roland?" I asked, my voice cracking slightly. He pushed off the doorframe and walked over, taking the saddle strap from my hands with practiced ease. "The very same. And you're the young squire I've been saddled with — if you'll pardon the expression." He freed Thunder from the saddle in one fluid motion and patted the stallion's neck gently. "First lesson, Frederick: a knight who cannot care for his horse cannot care for his kingdom. Now, let me show you where we keep the feed." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: A Cold Reception" data-color="blue"> I had barely led Thunder through the stable doors when I heard the sharp crack of a sword striking wood. I flinched, instinctively reaching for a weapon I didn't carry, and turned to see a knight driving his blade into a practice post with ruthless precision. Each blow landed in exactly the same spot, splintering the wood deeper and deeper. He stopped mid-swing, as if sensing my presence, and turned. Sir Roland was not what I had imagined. He was leaner than the knights in my storybooks, almost gaunt, with hollow cheeks and pale gray eyes that seemed to look straight through me. "You're late," he said flatly. "I — the road from Ashenvale was longer than I expected, sir. There was flooding near the —" "I didn't ask for excuses." He sheathed his sword and walked toward me, each step deliberate. He stopped barely a foot away and looked me over the way a butcher might examine a cut of meat. "You're small. You ride poorly — I watched you from the wall. And you've never held a real sword, have you?" My mouth went dry. "No, sir." Sir Roland exhaled slowly through his nose, then turned his back to me. "Stable your horse. Find the servants' quarters. Supper is at sundown, and you will not be late again." He paused at the doorway without looking back. "Welcome to Thornwall, boy. I hope you're tougher than you look." </nc-section>