<nc-section data-title="Version 1" data-color="red"> I dismounted Thunder near the stables, my legs trembling from the long ride. A burly man in worn chainmail emerged from the shadows, his face weathered by countless battles. "You must be the new squire," Sir Roland said, his voice rough. He looked me over and his expression hardened. "You're smaller than I expected. Castle life isn't for the weak, boy. You'll earn your place here, or you'll be sent home crying to your mother." He grabbed Thunder's reins. "Stable your own horse. A squire who cannot care for his mount is worthless to me." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 2" data-color="green"> As I guided Thunder toward the stables, an older man with a kind face and thinning gray hair stepped forward. He wore a simple tunic bearing the kingdom's crest. "Frederick, I presume?" Sir Roland smiled, extending a calloused hand. "Welcome to Castle Blackthorn. I was told to expect you before nightfall." He gestured toward the stables where a groom waited. "Your horse will be well cared for. Come, let me show you to your quarters. You've had a long journey, and tomorrow your training begins at dawn." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Version 3" data-color="blue"> Before I could reach the stables, a towering figure in gleaming armor blocked my path. Sir Roland's reputation preceded him—the realm's finest swordsman, they said. Up close, I noticed his eyes scanning everything: my posture, my gear, the condition of my horse. He said nothing for a long moment. Then, "You ride well. Your seat is firm, your hands gentle." He studied me. "But riding is not fighting. Tomorrow, we shall see what else you know." With that, he turned and strode toward the castle, his cape billowing behind him. </nc-section>