<nc-section data-title="Version 1: Sir Roland's Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted Thunder near the stables, the clatter of armored boots on cobblestone drew my attention. A broad-shouldered man with a silver-streaked beard and a weathered face stepped forward from the shadow of the stable arch. His breastplate bore the sigil of a golden hawk — the mark of Sir Roland, Knight Commander of the Eastern Keep. "You must be the squire they sent from Ashford," he said, his voice deep and steady as a war drum. He looked me over with sharp, appraising eyes, the kind that had seen a hundred battlefields and remembered every one. "Frederick, is it?" I straightened my back and gave a quick bow. "Yes, Sir Roland. I've come to serve and train under your command." He grunted, reaching out to pat Thunder's neck with a gauntleted hand. The stallion, who rarely tolerated strangers, leaned into the touch. "Good horse," Sir Roland murmured. Then, turning back to me, a faint smile cracked through his stern expression. "A man is only as reliable as his mount, boy. You've passed the first test without knowing it." He gestured toward the stable doors. "Get him fed and brushed. Then find me in the great hall. Your real training begins tonight." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Knight's Measure" data-color="green"> The stables smelled of hay and iron, and I was struggling to loosen Thunder's saddle straps when a calm voice spoke from behind me. "You'll want to lift the buckle before you pull. That strap's designed to hold fast against a charge — it won't yield to fumbling." I turned to find a tall knight leaning against the stable door, arms crossed, watching me with an expression that hovered somewhere between amusement and curiosity. He wore no helmet, and his dark hair was pulled back in a simple knot. A long scar traced a pale line from his left temple to his jaw. "Sir Roland?" I guessed, remembering the descriptions my father had given me. "The very same." He pushed off from the doorframe and walked over, his movements fluid and unhurried, like a man who had long since learned that patience was a deadlier weapon than any sword. He reached past me and freed the buckle with a single, practiced motion. "And you're Frederick. Younger than I expected." He studied my face for a long moment. "But then, the dragon doesn't care how old you are when it finds you." A chill ran through me. No one had mentioned a dragon. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Old Hawk" data-color="blue"> I had barely led Thunder through the stable gate when a wooden practice sword came spinning through the air toward my head. Instinct took over — I ducked, releasing the reins, and the blade whistled past my ear before clattering against the stone wall behind me. "Decent reflexes," came a gruff voice. "Terrible stance." A knight emerged from the far end of the stable yard, his scarlet cloak dragging through the dust. He was older than I had imagined — perhaps fifty, perhaps more — but he moved with a coiled energy that made his age irrelevant. His eyes were the pale grey of a winter sky, and they pinned me in place like a butterfly on a collector's board. "Sir Roland, I presume?" I managed, my heart still hammering. "You presume correctly." He walked toward me, boots crunching on the gravel, and stopped an arm's length away. He smelled of leather and forge smoke. "They told me Ashford was sending their best young squire. I wanted to see for myself." He bent down, picked up the practice sword, and pressed it into my hands. "Welcome to the castle, Frederick. I hope you're a faster learner than you are a dodger." Thunder snorted behind me, as if in agreement. I gripped the wooden hilt and met Sir Roland's gaze. Something told me that sleep would be a luxury I could no longer afford. </nc-section>