<nc-section data-title="Version 1: The Trial of Iron" data-color="red"> The stables reeked of leather and iron as I reined Thunder to a halt. Before my boots touched the straw-strewn ground, a figure emerged from the shadows of the barn—broad-shouldered, scarred, with eyes like burning embers. "You're late," Sir Roland growled, his voice rough as gravel. He didn't extend a hand; instead, he gripped the hilt of his sword, knuckles white with suppressed fury. "Do you think dragons wait for pretty boys who can't tell time?" He strode forward, invading my space, his breath hot against my face. "That saddle is loose. Your posture is that of a sack of potatoes. And this horse—" He slapped Thunder's flank hard enough to make the stallion skitter, eyes rolling. "—deserves a rider with spine, not some farmer's son playing at glory." He stepped back, folding his arms across his chest plate. "Prove you belong here, boy. Groom the stallion, muck the stalls, and be ready for sword drills at dawn. If I find a single speck of dirt on that armor by morning, you'll be walking back to whatever village spat you out." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Welcome Grove" data-color="green"> The stable yard smelled of fresh hay and blooming honeysuckle that climbed the old stone walls. As I dismounted Thunder, wiping sweat from my brow, a hearty laugh rang out from beneath the shade of an ancient oak. "Easy there, lad! Let the poor beast breathe!" Sir Roland emerged into the sunlight, his armor replaced by a simple tunic of forest green, his beard streaked with silver but his smile warm as summer. He moved with the easy grace of a man who spent more time among horses than courts, extending a calloused hand that bore the gentle scars of countless bridles and healing poultices. "Welcome to Thornhaven," he said, clasping my shoulder with surprising gentleness. "I see you've ridden hard—Thunder's a good judge of character, and he's not blown or fighting the bit. That speaks well of you." He gestured toward the stable doors, where lanterns glowed amber in the approaching dusk. "Come, the horses eat first here, then the men. There's apple mash for Thunder and hot stew for you. Training starts tomorrow, but tonight? Tonight we talk of where you come from, and where you wish to grow." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Azure Hour" data-color="blue"> Twilight had painted the stables in shades of indigo and silver by the time Thunder's hooves clattered against the cobblestones. The courtyard was empty, silent save for the whisper of wind through the pennants above. I saw him before I heard him—a silhouette leaning against the stable door, motionless as a statue carved from midnight. "Frederick of Dunmorrow," Sir Roland said, his voice low and resonant, echoing strangely in the blue-dark air. He stepped forward, his face half-hidden by shadow, half-illuminated by the last pale light. He did not smile. "I wondered if you would come before the stars emerged, or after." He circled me slowly, his boots making no sound on the stones. His eyes—pale blue and unfathomable—studied me as one might study a map written in a dead language. "Do you know why you are here?" he asked, pausing before me. When I stammered an answer about training and honor, he raised a hand to silence me. "You are here because the last dragon dreamed of you. Because the old magic recognizes something in your blood that you do not yet see in yourself." He turned toward the stable, his cloak billowing like smoke. "Leave your horse. Leave your past. Follow me into the dark, and we shall see if you can withstand the cold that comes before the fire." </nc-section>