<nc-section data-title="Version 1: A Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> The thunder of hooves faded as I pulled Thunder to a stop near the stables. Dust swirled in the evening light, settling around polished boots that stepped forward from the shadows. Sir Roland stood tall—broad-shouldered, armor dented from past battles, his expression as unyielding as stone. His gauntleted hand rose, not in greeting, but in inspection. "You're late," he said, voice low and gravelly. "The sun has dipped below the battlements. A squire should arrive before the light fails, not chase it." I swallowed hard, dismounting with trembling legs. "Begging your pardon, sir. The river ford was swollen—" "Excuses wither faster than courage in battle," he cut in. "Come. We begin at dawn. And you will stable your own horse. A knight's mount is no groom's burden." I nodded, heart pounding—not from the ride, but from the weight of this man’s gaze. This was no mere training. It was a trial, and I had just failed the first step. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Brother in Armor" data-color="green"> I guided Thunder into the stable yard, brushing sweat from my brow. Before I could even unbuckle the saddle, a warm laugh rang out. "By the stars, that’s a fine beast! Name him, have you?" I turned to see a knight leaning against the stable door—Sir Roland, his armor less ornate than feared, his eyes crinkled with amusement. He extended a hand calloused but kind. "Thunder, sir," I said, shaking it firmly. "After the storm that brought me here." "Thunder, eh? Fitting," he chuckled. "I knew a warhorse once who scared the wits out of enemy mages just by snorting. You must be Frederick. The steward mentioned you’d be arriving." "Yes, sir. For training." "Excellent. And don’t call me ‘sir’ when we’re mucking stalls together. Roland will do. Now, let’s get this noble beast settled—tomorrow, we ride to the training yard. You’ll want your legs steady beneath you." His ease loosened the knot in my chest. Perhaps knighthood wasn’t carved from stone, but forged in camaraderie. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: Echoes of Destiny" data-color="blue"> As I slid from Thunder’s back, a hush fell over the stables—as though the very horses knew who approached. Sir Roland emerged like a wraith from the twilight, his silver-edged cloak whispering against the cobbles. His eyes, one pale gray and the other clouded white from an old wound, locked onto mine. "You carry the scent of the highlands," he said, voice like wind through ancient pines. "And the mark." I froze. No one knew of the dragon-shaped birthmark beneath my tunic—the secret my mother had sworn me to hide. "You are not just a squire, Frederick," Roland murmured, stepping closer. "You are the last ember of a forgotten flame. The elders spoke of a boy born beneath the eclipsed moon, who would stand beside the Last Dragon when the Shadow returns." I opened my mouth to speak, but he raised a hand. "Say nothing. Not yet. Train with me. Learn the sword, yes—but also the old words, the forgotten runes. For when the mountain stirs... you must be ready." And in that moment, my journey as a squire ended. The path of legend had just begun. </nc-section>