<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 everything the stories had promised — broad-shouldered, with a jaw like chiseled granite and eyes that seemed to appraise a man's worth in a single glance. His armor bore the dents and scratches of a hundred campaigns, and the crest of a silver hawk gleamed on his breastplate. "You must be Frederick," he said, his voice deep and steady as a war drum. He extended a gauntleted hand, and when I took it, his grip nearly crushed my fingers. "I've been expecting you. Your father wrote ahead — said you were eager. Eagerness is good, boy, but it won't stop a blade." He glanced at Thunder and gave a slight nod of approval. "At least you know how to pick a horse. Come. The stable hands will tend to him. We have much to discuss before the night is through." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Humble Introduction" data-color="green"> The smell of hay and leather greeted me as I led Thunder toward the stables, my legs aching from the long ride. I was fumbling with the saddle straps when a quiet voice startled me from behind. "Easy now — loosen the cinch before you pull, or you'll pinch the poor beast." I turned to find a man leaning against the stable door, arms folded, watching me with a gentle amusement. He wore no armor, just a simple wool tunic and muddied boots, but the sword at his hip told a different story. There was a calm authority about him, the kind earned rather than inherited. "I'm Sir Roland," he said, stepping forward to help me with the saddle. "And you, I take it, are my new squire." He lifted the saddle off Thunder's back with practiced ease. "First lesson, Frederick — always take care of your horse before yourself. He carried you here. You owe him that much." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: A Cold Reception" data-color="blue"> I had barely brought Thunder to a halt when a sharp whistle cut through the evening air. A knight strode toward me from the far end of the stables, his dark cloak billowing behind him like the wing of some great bird. His face was weathered and hard, marked by a pale scar that ran from his left temple down to the corner of his mouth. This was Sir Roland — the Hawk of Ashenmere, they called him — and he did not look pleased. "You're late," he said flatly, stopping a few paces away. His eyes flicked over me — my dusty traveling clothes, my untested hands, the nervous way I held Thunder's reins. Whatever he saw did not impress him. "I was told I'd be receiving a squire of promise. What I see is a boy who can't even arrive on time." My mouth went dry. I opened it to explain — the washed-out bridge, the detour through the Thornwood — but he raised a hand to silence me. "Excuses are for men who've already failed. Stable your horse. Report to the armory. You have ten minutes." He turned on his heel and walked away without another word, leaving me standing in the fading light with a knot of dread tightening in my chest. </nc-section>