<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Arrival - Version 1" data-color="red"> I dismounted Thunder near the stables, my legs trembling from the long ride. A burly man in weathered armor approached, his boots crunching on the gravel. His salt-and-pepper beard was clipped short, and a jagged scar ran from his left eye to his jaw. "Frederick of Millbrook?" His voice was gravel scraped over iron. I straightened my spine. "Yes, sir. I've come to—" "I know why you've come, boy." Sir Roland circled me slowly, his critical gaze sharp. "Your father spoke highly of you. But words are wind. I judge men by their deeds, not their lineage." He stopped before me, close enough that I could smell leather and horse on him. "You'll start tomorrow at dawn. Stalls need mucking before you'll ever touch a sword." A grim smile tugged at his lips. "Welcome to Castle Blackthorn." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Arrival - Version 2" data-color="green"> The stables were quieter than I expected, filled with the soft nickering of horses and the scent of fresh hay. A stable boy took Thunder's reins as I stretched my sore muscles. "Ah, you must be the new squire!" The voice was warm, almost merry. I turned to see a knight approaching with a rolling gait, his armor polished to a gleam despite obvious signs of wear. Sir Roland's face was weathered but kind, crinkles at the corners of his eyes suggesting a man who laughed often. "Frederick, isn't it? I'm Sir Roland." He clasped my forearm in greeting, his grip firm but not challenging. "Quite the journey from Millbrook, I imagine. Come, the kitchen staff saved you some supper. You can tell me about yourself on the way." He draped a companionable arm over my shoulder. "We'll have plenty of time for training tomorrow. Tonight, rest. You're home now." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Arrival - Version 3" data-color="blue"> Dusk had settled over the castle by the time I reached the stables. Torchlight flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. A figure emerged from the darkness between the stalls—tall, broad-shouldered, but moving with an unsettling silence for a man in full plate. Sir Roland's face was half-hidden in shadow, but I could see one pale grey eye studying me. "Frederick." It was not a question. "I received your father's raven three days past. You are... earlier than expected." He stepped closer, and I noticed his hand resting on the pommel of his sword—relaxed, yet ready. "Tell me, boy. Do you know why you were sent here specifically? Why not Thornwall, or the Iron Academy?" His head tilted slightly. "Your father entrusted you to me for a reason. A reason he may not have shared with you." The torchlight caught something ancient in his gaze. "We have much to discuss, you and I. But not here." </nc-section>