<nc-section data-title="Version 1: Sir Roland's Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted Thunder near the stables, a towering figure emerged from the shadow of the gatehouse. Sir Roland was every bit as imposing as the stories had promised — broad-shouldered, clad in a worn leather jerkin, with a longsword hanging casually at his hip as though it weighed nothing at all. His face was weathered by decades of campaigns, a jagged scar tracing a line from his left temple to his jaw. "You must be the squire," he said, his voice deep and gravelly. He didn't offer his hand. Instead, he looked me over the way a farrier might inspect a lame horse — with skepticism and faint disappointment. "Frederick, is it? You're smaller than I expected." I straightened my back and met his gaze. "I may be small, Sir Roland, but I'm willing to learn." He grunted — whether in approval or amusement, I couldn't tell — and gestured toward the stables. "Then your first lesson begins now. A knight who cannot care for his horse is no knight at all. Unsaddle your mount, feed him, brush him down. I'll be watching." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Kinder Reception" data-color="green"> A stable hand rushed forward to take Thunder's reins, but before the boy could reach me, a warm laugh echoed across the courtyard. I turned to see a knight striding toward me with an easy, confident gait. He was older than I had imagined — perhaps fifty — but there was a lightness about him, a kindness in his brown eyes that immediately put me at ease. "Frederick! At last!" Sir Roland clasped my shoulder with a gauntleted hand and smiled broadly. "Your father wrote to me about you. Said you were stubborn as a mule and twice as hardworking. I see you've already made the journey in one piece — that's more than some squires manage." I bowed awkwardly, unsure of the proper etiquette. "It's an honor to serve under you, Sir Roland." "None of that, lad. We'll have plenty of time for formalities later." He took Thunder's reins himself and led the stallion toward a clean stall, speaking softly to the horse as though greeting an old friend. "First, let's get this fine beast settled. Then we'll find you some supper. Tomorrow, the real work begins." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: An Ominous Meeting" data-color="blue"> The stables were quiet — too quiet. The other horses shifted uneasily in their stalls, ears flattened, nostrils flaring as though something unseen had disturbed them. Thunder whinnied and refused to step forward, his hooves scraping against the cobblestones in protest. "Easy, boy," I murmured, stroking his neck. That was when I noticed the man leaning against the stable door, arms folded, watching me with pale, unreadable eyes. Sir Roland did not look like the hero of the ballads. He was gaunt, his cheekbones sharp beneath skin that seemed stretched too thin. His armor was immaculate — polished to a mirror shine — but there was something hollow about the way he wore it, as though the man inside had slowly been emptied out. "Frederick." He said my name like a verdict. "You've come at a difficult time." "Difficult, my lord?" I asked, finally coaxing Thunder into a stall. Sir Roland's gaze drifted toward the mountains beyond the castle walls, where dark clouds gathered in unnatural formations. "Something has awakened in the Ashspine Peaks. The livestock have gone mad. The wells taste of sulfur." He paused, and when he looked back at me, there was something ancient and fearful in his expression. "Tell me, boy — do you believe in dragons?" </nc-section>