<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Gauntlet" data-color="red"> I reined Thunder in just before the grand archway leading to the stables, the stallion’s flanks heaving and steam pluming from his nostrils. Before I could dismount, a shadow detached itself from the deepening gloom of the stable entrance. A mountain of a man, clad in scarred leather and a dented breastplate, stepped into the last rays of the sun. His face was a roadmap of old battles, his jaw set like stone. "You're late," he growled, his voice a low gravelly rumble. This had to be Sir Roland. He flicked a piece of straw from his iron gauntlet, his eyes, the color of cold steel, pinning me in place. "I was told to expect a squire with some fire. All I see is a boy who can't tell time. Get that beast stabled. Your gear is in the barracks. Don't be late again." He didn't wait for a reply, simply turning and disappearing back into the stables, leaving me with the chilling certainty that my training had already begun. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Welcome" data-color="green"> As I guided Thunder toward the familiar scent of hay and manure, a figure emerged from the stables, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. He was older than I’d expected, with a face weathered by sun and wind, but his eyes held a warmth that dispelled the evening chill. A gentle smile crinkled the corners of his mouth. "You must be Frederick," he said, his voice calm and steady. "I am Sir Roland. Welcome to Dragonwatch Keep." He approached not with the swagger of a warrior, but with the quiet confidence of a man at ease. He ran a hand down Thunder’s neck, and the high-strung stallion actually calmed under his touch. "A fine animal. You ride well. Come, I'll show you where to bed him down, and then we can get you some supper. The path to knighthood is long, but a good start is half the battle. And you, my boy, have had a good start." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Watcher" data-color="blue"> I brought Thunder to a halt, the castle's shadow now swallowing the courtyard whole. Near the stables, a man stood perfectly still, as if carved from the same stone as the castle walls. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his silver-blue cloak catching the breeze. His armor, though unadorned, was polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the dying light of the day. He watched my approach with an unnerving stillness, his face impassive. When I finally stopped before him, he gave a slight, formal nod. "Squire Frederick," he said, his voice low and resonant, like the tolling of a distant bell. "I am Sir Roland. Your arrival was noted." He gestured towards the stables with a gauntleted hand, a movement both precise and weary. "See to your horse. The quartermaster will assign you a bunk. Rest well. The morrow brings duties enough for us all." With that, he turned his gaze back to the horizon, leaving me feeling less like a new recruit and more like a footnote in a much larger, sorrier story. </nc-section>