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<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Greeting (Red Version)" data-color="red"> Thunder snorted as we slowed beneath the eaves of the stables. A broad-shouldered figure detached himself from the shadow of a hayloft and stepped forward, armor clinking like dry bells. Sir Roland's hair was more steel than black and a pale scar traced his jaw; he regarded me with a steadiness that made even Thunder shift his weight. "Frederick," he said, voice low and even. "So you're the squire they'll put under my hand." He reached out, palm flat against Thunder's flank as if to test both horse and rider in a single motion. "Mind your posture at the trot. A man's life can depend on the way he sits in the saddle." There was no smile in it, only the plain promise of discipline. I swallowed, feeling the dusk cool on my face, and nodded. This, I realized, would be harder work than the road had prepared me for. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Greeting (Green Version)" data-color="green"> Thunder stamped his hoof, and a laugh — rough but warm — came from near the tack room. Sir Roland emerged, wiping his hands on a rag. He looked older than the portraits in the hall but his eyes were quick and bright. "Ah, the new squire!" he exclaimed, clapping me on the shoulder so hard Thunder snorted in surprise. "Welcome to Halbrook Keep. I'm Roland. Heard you rode all the way from the north. That takes courage and a good horse." He gestured toward the rows of saddles. "Come, we'll get you settled. You'll eat with the household tonight; learn faster with a full belly and a friend at your elbow." His tone made the castle feel less like stone and more like a place where someone might belong. For the first time since I left home, the knot of homesickness eased a little. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: The Greeting (Blue Version)" data-color="blue"> The stables smelled of straw and horses; under the lantern light a figure stood half in shadow. Sir Roland's armor had been polished to a cold gleam, and when he stepped forward the light caught the lines of his face and sharpened them into something severe. "You ride late," he said, voice smooth as the steel at his hip. "Not all who come at dusk bring only themselves." He held my gaze as if weighing a blade. "Tell me your name, squire, and why you sought service here. We are no refuge for wanderers with faint hearts." There was a warning in his words that I couldn't shake: behind the everyday courtesy lay a question of trust. I found my voice and answered, and as I spoke the wind whispered through the rafters, carrying with it the faint, almost remembered scent of smoke—an ember of something larger stirring beyond the castle walls. </nc-section>