<nc-section data-title="Sir Roland's First Greeting" data-color="red"> The air near the stables tasted of iron and ozone, sharp and heavy as if a storm was brewing on the horizon. As I unbuckled my saddlebags, a shadow fell across the stone path. Sir Roland emerged from the gloom, his armor polished to a fierce, blinding sheen that seemed to hold a light of its own. He didn't bow; he stood like a statue of war, scanning the yard with eyes that missed nothing. "You have the eyes of a wolf," he rumbled, his voice low and gravelly. He thrust a gauntleted hand toward the tack room. "The castle fears fire, squire. Do not disappoint them, or you will become part of the ash." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Sir Roland's First Greeting" data-color="green"> The stables smelled rich and deep, a heady mixture of wet straw, leather, and the damp earth just beyond the castle walls. I was brushing mud from Thunder’s hooves when the scent of pine and rain drifted in. Sir Roland stepped out from behind a stack of hay bales, his green tabard blending so perfectly with the shadows he nearly vanished before I saw him. "Easy now," he said, his tone softer than the surrounding stone. He offered me a canteen of cool water. "You’ve made the journey, but you have yet to see the land that bleeds where the grass grows. The kingdom outside is dying, Frederick. It falls to us to remember how to grow it back, even within these walls." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Sir Roland's First Greeting" data-color="blue"> A chill wind cut through the courtyard as I led Thunder toward the stable door, the grey sky mirroring the uncertainty I felt in my chest. Just as the metal latch clicked, a figure in blue approached. Sir Roland moved with the fluidity of water, silent and relentless, his polished helm reflecting the gloom above us. "The road was long, but the night is colder," he noted, not as a question, but as a statement of fact. He rested a hand on the hilt of his broadsword, the steel gleaming like a calm lake. "You come seeking glory, boy, but glory is often a fever dream. I am here to teach you the discipline of the ice. If you cannot withstand the cold, you will shatter before the first blow lands." </nc-section>