<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Gauntlet" data-color="red"> As I reined in Thunder, the great stallion snorting and stamping, a figure detached itself from the shadows of the stable archway. He was a mountain of a man, clad in dented steel plate that seemed to absorb the dying light. A scar, pale and jagged, cut across one eyebrow and disappeared into his graying beard. "Name," he grunted, his voice like grinding stones. He didn't offer a hand or a greeting, just stood there, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his longsword. "Frederick, sir," I stammered, swinging down from the saddle. My legs felt like jelly after the long ride. "Frederick," he repeated, tasting the name as if it were sour. "And who sent you, Frederick?" "Lord Gideon of the Northern Fief, sir. He said you were expecting a squire." The knight's eyes, a hard and flinty grey, raked over me, from my mud-splattered boots to my travel-worn tunic. "He sends boys, now," the knight muttered, more to himself than to me. "Very well. See to your horse. Then see to my armor. It's seen better days, and so have I. You'll find me in the armory. Don't be late." He turned and walked away without a backward glance, leaving me standing alone in the growing cold, the weight of his disapproval heavier than any armor. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Mentor" data-color="green"> I guided Thunder into the wide, clean-swept courtyard before the stables. The air was warm and smelled of sweet hay and well-oiled leather. A man stood by the main doors, not watching me, but gently currying a dappled grey mare. He was tall and lean, his dark hair streaked with silver at the temples, and he moved with a quiet, practiced grace. He looked up as I approached, and his eyes, the color of a summer forest, crinkled at the corners. "That's a fine animal," he said, his voice calm and resonant. "He carries himself well. You must have a gentle hand." "Thank you, sir," I said, a little taken aback by the kindness in his tone. "He's called Thunder." "A strong name for a strong heart," the man replied, giving the mare a final pat before turning his full attention to me. "I am Sir Roland. Lord Gideon sent word of your arrival. Welcome to Whitekeep Castle." He gestured towards the stable doors. "Come, let's get Thunder settled. A good squire knows that the care of his knight's steed is the first lesson in knighthood. A knight is nothing without his horse, and a horse is nothing without a worthy caretaker." He led the way, his presence as comforting and steady as the ancient oaks that lined the castle walls. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Ghost" data-color="blue"> The stables were unnervingly quiet as I dismounted, the only sound the soft thud of my boots on the packed earth and Thunder's weary sighs. A lone figure stood near the far wall, staring at a faded tapestry depicting a long-forgotten battle. He was still, almost like a statue carved from old armor and sorrow. His mail was dull, lacking any polish, and a deep weariness clung to him like a shroud. I cleared my throat, and he slowly turned his head. His face was handsome but haunted, his eyes a deep, sorrowful blue that seemed to hold the reflection of a thousand rainy nights. "You must be the boy," he said, his voice a low, raspy whisper. "Frederick." It wasn't a question. "I am Sir Roland." He didn't offer to shake my hand or help with my horse. He simply looked at me, and I felt as though he were looking past me, at some ghost only he could see. "They say the age of heroes is over," he continued, his gaze drifting back to the tapestry. "They say we are just men now, clinging to the shadows of a world that has already burned. We'll see if you have the stomach for shadows, squire. Unpack your things. Your duties begin at sunrise." </nc-section>