<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Strict Mentor" data-color="red"> I reined in Thunder, the stallion’s hooves clattering against the cobblestones near the stables. A towering figure in polished plate armor stepped out from the shadows, hand resting casually on the pommel of a broadsword. It was Sir Roland. His face was a mask of stone, his eyes scanning me with a critical gaze that made my skin prickle. "Dismount, boy," he commanded, his voice booming like thunder. "And do it with precision. If you cannot handle a horse with grace, you will never handle a sword with skill." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Warm Welcome" data-color="green"> As I steered Thunder toward the open stable doors, a man with a salt-and-pepper beard emerged, carrying a grooming brush. Sir Roland didn't look like the terrifying warrior the bards sang about; he looked like a man who understood hard work. He gave a warm, nodding smile, taking Thunder's bridle with a gentle, practiced hand. "Easy now, big fellow," he whispered to the horse before looking up at me. "You must be Frederick. Good journey? We’ll get him rubbed down and fed, and then we'll find you a bite to eat." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Ominous Greeting" data-color="blue"> The stables loomed ahead, dark against the deepening twilight of the evening. There, leaning against a wooden post, stood Sir Roland. He was watching the horizon, lost in thought, as the last rays of sunlight glinted off his silver pauldrons. Hearing my approach, he turned slowly, his expression unreadable in the half-light. "So, the new squire has arrived," he said quietly, almost to himself. "Come. The stables offer safety, but out here... the wind carries whispers of things best left unheard." </nc-section>