<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Gauntlet" data-color="red"> I reined in Thunder, the powerful stallion snorting plumes of steam into the cooling air. Before I could even dismount, a figure detached himself from the shadows of the stable archway. He was a mountain of a man, clad in a scarred steel cuirass, his face a roadmap of old battles. This had to be Sir Roland. He didn't offer a greeting, only a grunt as he stepped forward, his storm-grey eyes raking me from my polished boots to my helmet-less head. "That's a fine beast," he said, his voice a low growl like shifting stone. "Question is, boy, can you handle him, or just the ride? A squire who can't care for his mount is useless to me." He crossed his thick arms over his chest, a clear challenge hanging in the air between us. The warmth of my arrival vanished, replaced by the cold fire of his scrutiny. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Mentor" data-color="green"> As I guided Thunder toward the large, wooden doors of the stable, a man emerged, wiping his hands on a piece of straw. He was older than I'd expected, with a neatly trimmed grey beard and eyes that crinkled at the corners with a hint of amusement. He wore a simple tunic over his chainmail, and the easy way he moved spoke of a life lived on his feet. He smiled as he saw me. "Easy now, lad," he said, his voice calm and kind. "Thunder's earned his rest after a journey like that. I'm Sir Roland." He gestured toward the stable entrance. "Let's get him settled. A good knight starts by taking care of his horse. It's the first lesson, and the most important one." His demeanor was not that of a stern taskmaster, but of a patient gardener preparing the soil for a new seed. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Sentinel" data-color="blue"> I brought Thunder to a halt just outside the stables, the last rays of the sun glinting off the castle's highest towers. A knight stood there, watching the sunset, his posture ramrod straight. His armor was well-maintained but bore the dents of countless conflicts. As I approached, he turned, and I saw his face was solemn, his eyes holding the deep, weary light of a man who had seen too many winters and too many wars. "Squire Frederick, I presume," he said. His voice was deep and measured, each word precisely placed. He gave me a slight, formal bow, a gesture of respect that felt more like a wall than a welcome. "I am Sir Roland. Welcome to Dragon's Rest." He looked past me, toward the darkening mountains in the distance. "May you find what you seek here." The unspoken weight of those words settled over me, heavier than any armor. </nc-section>