<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Gruff Welcome" data-color="red"> I reined Thunder to a halt near the stable yards, where the smell of leather and hay mixed with the metallic tang of the armorers' forges. Sir Roland stood waiting, his scarred face half-lit by the dying red sun that bathed the courtyard in crimson. He wore no surcoat, only a stained leather jerkin that spoke of decades of hard use. "So you're the boy who thinks he can become a knight," Sir Roland said, his voice rough as gravel. He stepped forward and gripped Thunder's bridle without asking, his calloused hands checking the bit and girth with practiced efficiency. "Look at these soft hands. These hands have never held a sword in earnest, never felt an enemy's blood run hot across the knuckles." I dismounted, my legs trembling not from the ride but from the intensity of his gaze. "I am ready to learn, Sir Roland." The knight laughed, a harsh bark that echoed against the stable walls. "Ready? You'll be mucking stalls before dawn, boy. You'll bleed before you sleep, and you'll thank me for the lesson." He clapped a hand on my shoulder, his grip iron-strong. "But you've got the look in your eyes. The hunger. That'll do... for now." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Steward's Blessing" data-color="green"> Thunder's hooves crunched on the gravel path that wound between the apple trees toward the royal stables. Sir Roland was leaning against the paddock fence, feeding sugar cubes to a chestnut mare, his demeanor softer than the legends suggested. The moss grew thick and emerald on the stable stones here, and the air smelled of fresh hay and growing things. "Welcome, Frederick," he called out, not with a shout but with the carrying voice of a man used to speaking across training fields. He approached with an easy gait, his green cloak—embroidered with the oak leaf sigil of his house—billowing gently in the evening breeze. "Your father spoke highly of your way with horses." He took Thunder's reins with reverence rather than possession, his eyes crinkling as he examined the stallion's condition. "A fine partner you've chosen. Remember, a knight is only as good as the bond he shares with his mount. These stables are where you'll learn your first true lessons—not with lance and shield, but with brush and bucket. Tend to your horse before yourself; that is the green path to honor." I bowed, feeling the weight of my journey lifting. "I am eager to begin, sir." "Eagerness is a seed," Sir Roland said, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Patience is the water that makes it grow. Come, let's get Thunder settled, and I'll tell you about your first day." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Weight of Duty" data-color="blue"> The castle bells tolled vespers as I finally guided Thunder toward the eastern stables, where torchlight flickered against pale stone. Sir Roland emerged from the shadows between the stalls, his polished plate armor gleaming cold and blue in the twilight, every buckle and rivet in perfect alignment. He did not smile. "Frederick of Thornhaven," he said, his voice precise and formal, carrying the frost of high mountain winters. He saluted—not with familiarity, but with the rigid gesture of military protocol. "I am Sir Roland, Keeper of the Squires. From this moment until you earn your spurs or quit these grounds, you belong to the Order." The stable yard seemed to grow colder as he spoke. He gestured toward the rows of stalls, each one meticulously maintained, each tool hanging in its designated place. "Discipline is the foundation upon which all else rests. You will rise before the sun, you will maintain your equipment to mirror-shine, and you will obey without question. The training here is not glorious. It is necessary." I straightened my spine under his azure gaze. "I understand, Sir Roland." "Understanding is not required," he said, turning on his heel. "Obedience is. Stable your horse in the seventh stall, then report to the armory. We begin tonight." </nc-section>