<nc-section data-title="Version 1: A Stern Welcome" data-color="red"> As I reined Thunder to a halt before the sprawling stables, a figure detached itself from the deepening shadows of the oak doorway. He was a mountain of a man, clad in dented steel plate that seemed to drink the last of the evening light. A thick, grizzled beard obscured much of his face, but his eyes, sharp and grey as a winter sky, missed nothing. "So, this is the new whelp," the knight rumbled, his voice like stones grinding together. He didn't offer a hand, but instead circled Thunder slowly, his gaze critical. "Strong horse. Let's hope the rider has more mettle than the last one they sent." He stopped before me, his sheer presence a weight in the air. "I am Sir Roland. Your training begins tomorrow at dawn. Be late, and you'll be cleaning the latrines with your tongue. Understood?" There was no warmth in his tone, only a cold, hard challenge. I could only nod, my throat suddenly dry. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Quiet Mentor" data-color="green"> The scent of hay and warm leather greeted me as I guided Thunder toward the stables. A man was already there, his back to me, expertly currying a powerful chestnut warhorse. He moved with a quiet, practiced grace, his every motion speaking of a long familiarity with the task. He must have heard my approach, for he didn't startle, simply finishing his stroke before turning. His face was lined with age and experience, his eyes holding a gentle, knowing light. "You must be Frederick," he said, his voice calm and steady. He gestured with a nod towards my stallion. "A fine animal. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he treats his horse." He offered a calloused, but kind, hand. "I am Sir Roland. The stables are a good place to start. Here, we are all just servants to our mounts. Remember that, and you will do well." His smile was small but genuine, instantly easing the knot of nerves in my stomach. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Formal Reception" data-color="blue"> I brought Thunder to a stop just shy of the stable archway, where a knight stood waiting. He was ramrod straight, his azure cloak immaculate, his polished gauntlets clasped behind his back. He watched my approach with a neutral, almost detached expression, his face clean-shaven and severe. As I dismounted, he gave a slight, formal bow. "Squire Frederick of Oakhaven," he stated, his voice precise and without inflection. "I am Sir Roland, Knight of the Realm and your appointed mentor. Your arrival has been noted." He produced a small, rolled parchment from his belt. "Your induction is scheduled for the ninth bell tomorrow. Until then, you are billeted in the eastern barracks. The stable master will see to your horse." His gaze flickered to Thunder, then back to me, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I saw a shadow of something ancient and tired in his eyes before it was gone, replaced by the mask of dutiful professionalism. </nc-section>