<nc-section data-title="Version 1: Sir Roland's Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted Thunder near the stables, a towering figure stepped from the shadow of the gatehouse. Sir Roland was everything the stories had promised — broad-shouldered, square-jawed, with a scar that traced a pale line from his left temple to the corner of his mouth. His armor was well-worn but immaculately maintained, each plate polished to a dull gleam. "You must be the squire," he said, his voice deep and unhurried. He didn't extend a hand. Instead, he looked me over the way a blacksmith might appraise a length of raw iron — measuring what I was against what I might become. "Frederick, isn't it? Son of Aldric the farrier?" I nodded, suddenly aware of how dusty and road-weary I must have looked. "Yes, Sir Roland. I've come to begin my training." He grunted, taking Thunder's reins from my hands with a practiced ease that made the stallion immediately settle. "First lesson, boy. A knight tends to his horse before he tends to himself. Come. I'll show you where the feed is kept, and then we'll see if the kitchens have anything left for you." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: A Cold Reception" data-color="green"> The stableboy had barely taken Thunder's reins when a voice cut through the evening air like a blade. "You're late." I turned to find Sir Roland leaning against the stable door, arms folded across his chest. He was smaller than I had imagined — lean and wiry, with sharp grey eyes that seemed to catalogue every detail of my appearance in a single glance. His dark hair was cropped close to his skull, and he wore no armor, only a simple leather jerkin and a sword belt that hung low on his hip. "I — the roads were muddy, sir, and I —" "Excuses are the currency of the weak, boy." He pushed off from the doorframe and walked toward me, his boots barely making a sound on the cobblestones. He stopped an arm's length away and studied my face. "You have your mother's eyes. She was a brave woman. Let us hope you've inherited more than her looks." Before I could ask how he had known my mother, he turned on his heel and strode toward the keep. "Keep up, Frederick. Supper waits for no one, and neither do I." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: An Unexpected Kindness" data-color="blue"> I was struggling with Thunder's saddle straps — my fingers numb from the long ride — when a pair of weathered hands appeared beside mine and deftly loosened the buckle. "Easy now. You'll strip the leather pulling like that." I looked up into the face of Sir Roland and nearly stumbled backward. The legendary knight of Ashenmoor looked nothing like the fearsome warrior of the ballads. His brown eyes were warm and creased with laugh lines, his beard flecked with grey, and he wore a simple wool cloak thrown over his shoulders as though he were a common stable hand rather than the most decorated knight in the kingdom. "Sir Roland?" I stammered. "I didn't expect — I mean, I thought someone would send for me, or —" He chuckled softly and lifted the saddle from Thunder's back with an ease that belied his age. "I make it a point to greet every new squire myself. A man reveals his true character in those first unguarded moments, before he has time to put on a performance." He set the saddle on its rack and gave Thunder an affectionate pat on the neck. "You spoke gently to your horse the whole way across the field. That tells me more about you than any letter of introduction ever could." He draped an arm around my shoulder and guided me toward the warm glow of the great hall. "Welcome to Ashenmoor, Frederick. I think you and I are going to get along just fine." </nc-section>