<nc-section data-title="The Iron Greeting" data-color="red"> As I reined Thunder to a halt near the stables, a towering figure stepped from the shadows of the hayloft. Sir Roland's armor bore the scratches of a hundred battles, and his eyes glinted like steel under a furrowed brow. He did not smile as he approached, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword. "So you are the boy who thinks himself worthy to serve," Sir Roland barked, his voice rough as gravel. He circled me slowly, inspecting my posture, my mount, my very bearing. "The stables are no place for soft hands or softer hearts. Dismount. If you can survive the smell and the labor, we shall see about your training." The horses nearby stamped their hooves, as if sensing the tension in the air. I slid from Thunder's back, my knees weak, and bowed deeply. "I am ready to serve, Sir Roland." "We shall see," he grunted, turning abruptly toward the stable doors. "Follow. Your first lesson begins now." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="A Knight and His Horse" data-color="green"> The stables breathed with warmth and the sweet scent of fresh hay. As I dismounted Thunder near the watering trough, I noticed a broad-shouldered man brushing down a chestnut mare in the nearest stall. He wore no helmet, and his laughter lines suggested he smiled often. "Ah! You must be Frederick," the knight called out, setting aside his brush and wiping his hands on his tunic. He approached with an easy stride, offering a weathered hand. "Sir Roland, at your service—and yours, apparently, for the next few years. Welcome to Castle Thornwood." His grip was firm but kind. Around us, stable hands moved with quiet efficiency, and a barn cat wound between my ankles. Sir Roland patted Thunder's neck approvingly. "Beautiful stallion. Treat him well, and he'll teach you more than I ever could. Come, let me show you where you'll bunk. The other squires are eager to meet you." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Shadows of the Past" data-color="blue"> Twilight had fully claimed the castle grounds by the time I guided Thunder toward the stables. In the dim lantern light, a lone figure stood motionless beside the hitching post, his cloak the color of midnight, his face half-hidden in shadow. "Frederick of Millbrook," Sir Roland spoke, his voice low and resonant, carrying the weight of careful measure. He stepped forward, and I saw that his armor was polished to a mirror sheen, ceremonial rather than battle-worn. "I have awaited your arrival since the raven came. Three decades ago, I stood where you stand now, young and full of dreams." The stable doors creaked in the evening breeze. Sir Roland placed a hand on my shoulder, his gaze distant, as though seeing through me to some memory long past. "The path ahead is longer than you know, and lonelier. But tonight, you need only concern yourself with settling your horse. Tomorrow, we begin the work that will define us both." </nc-section>