<nc-section data-title="Version 1: A Warm Welcome" data-color="red"> I dismounted Thunder near the stables, my legs trembling from the long ride. A burly man with a graying beard approached, his armor clanking with each step. "You must be the new squire," he said, his voice rough but not unkind. "I am Sir Roland. Welcome to Castle Blackthorn." He extended a calloused hand, and I shook it firmly, trying to hide my nervousness. "Thank you, sir. I'm Frederick of Millbrook. It's an honor to meet you." Sir Roland chuckled, a deep rumble that seemed to shake his broad shoulders. "Millbrook, eh? I know it well. Good folk there. Come, let's get your horse settled, and then I'll show you to your quarters. You'll need your rest—training begins at dawn." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2: The Testing" data-color="green"> Before I could even dismount, a towering figure emerged from the shadows of the stable, arms crossed over his chest. He wore no armor, only a simple tunic, yet his presence commanded immediate respect. "I am Sir Roland," he said flatly, studying me with sharp gray eyes. "You're late. The message said you'd arrive by midday." "I apologize, sir. The river crossing was flooded, and I had to—" "Excuses," he cut me off, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Still, you're here now. That's what matters." He stepped forward and took Thunder's reins, examining the horse with a practiced eye. "Fine animal. You've taken good care of him on the road. That speaks well of you." He handed the reins to a stable boy who had materialized silently at his side. "Follow me, boy. We'll see if you're made of the right stuff." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3: The Weight of Legacy" data-color="blue"> The stables were quieter than I expected, the only sounds the soft whickers of horses and the rustle of straw. As I led Thunder into a stall, I noticed an older man sitting on a wooden barrel, whittling a piece of wood with a small knife. He didn't look up. "Frederick of Millbrook." It wasn't a question. I straightened my back. "Yes, sir." "Your father rode with me in the Border Wars. Finest lance I ever saw." The man finally raised his head, and I saw a jagged scar running from his temple to his jaw. "You have his eyes." I swallowed hard. "You knew my father?" "Sir Roland de Winter, at your service." He rose, tucking the knife into his belt. "I promised your father I'd look after his son if ever the opportunity arose. Seems the old fox arranged this before he passed." His expression softened. "You're not just my squire, lad. You're my responsibility. I take that seriously." He placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Now come. We have much to discuss." </nc-section>