<nc-section data-title="The Knight's Challenge" data-color="red"> Sir Roland stood like a blade of iron against the stable doors, his armor catching the dying sunlight like fresh blood on steel. He did not smile as I dismounted; his eyes, hard as flint, assessed every trembling motion of my hands as I fumbled with Thunder's reins. "So you're the lordling's whelp come to play at knighthood," he growled, stepping forward with heavy boots that kicked up dust clouds like smoke. "Your horse looks better fed than you look trained. Leave him with the stable boy—if you can find your way to the training yard without collapsing, we’ll see if there's any iron in your spine." His gauntleted hand struck my shoulder, not a greeting but a test of balance, and I staggered but did not fall. Roland's lip curled—whether in approval or disgust, I could not tell. "Dawn breaks early here, boy. Pray you do not break with it." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Welcome to the Stables" data-color="green"> The scent of fresh hay and leather greeted me before the knight did. Sir Roland emerged from the stable shadows with an apple in his hand, offering it first to Thunder with a gentleness that belied his massive frame. He wore no armor—only a simple tunic the color of moss, his beard streaked with gray like bark on an ancient oak. "Steady now," he said, his voice rich and warm as summer earth. He took Thunder's bridle with practiced ease, his calloused hands moving in soothing circles along the horse's neck. "A fine mount you have, Frederick. The land provides us with good foundations—strong horses, strong soil, strong men. But foundations must be tended." He turned to me then, his green eyes crinkling at the corners as he clasped my forearm in a grip that spoke of welcome rather than judgment. "Come, the evening feed is being prepared, and there is much to learn about these beasts before you learn to ride them into battle. A knight is only as good as the care he shows his companions." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Twilight Encounter" data-color="blue"> The stable lanterns had not yet been lit when Sir Roland materialized from the indigo shadows, his silhouette merging with the twilight as if he were part of the coming night itself. He wore a midnight-blue cloak that drank in the last of the sunlight, and his face seemed carved from the same stone as the ancient walls behind him. "You arrive at the hour between," he observed, his voice low and distant as wind across a frozen lake. He did not approach immediately, but stood watching as I eased Thunder toward the water trough. "Between day and night. Between boy and man. Between the world you knew and the world that awaits." When he finally stepped into the faint glow of the rising moon, I saw that his eyes were the color of storm clouds—gray, unreadable, touched with something like sorrow. He placed a hand on Thunder's flank, then on my shoulder, his fingers cold through my tunic. "The dragon sleeps, but not forever. Rest while you can, young Frederick. Tomorrow the silence ends." </nc-section>