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<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight's Welcome (Version 1)" data-color="red"> As I dismounted near the stables, the scent of fresh hay and leather filled my nostrils. A tall figure emerged from the shadows of the stable doors, his armor gleaming faintly in the dying light. Sir Roland was a legend in these parts—a knight whose deeds were sung in taverns from the coast to the mountains. His dark beard was streaked with silver, and a jagged scar ran from his temple to his jaw, a souvenir from the Battle of Thornwood. "You must be Frederick," he said, his voice like gravel wrapped in velvet. He extended a gauntleted hand, and when I took it, his grip was like iron. "I knew your father. A good man. A better soldier." He studied me with piercing grey eyes, as if measuring the weight of my soul. "We shall see if the son has inherited the steel of the father." I swallowed hard, uncertain whether his words were a welcome or a warning. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight's Welcome (Version 2)" data-color="green"> Thunder snorted as I led him toward the stables, his hooves clopping against the cobblestones. The stable boy, a freckled lad no older than ten, scurried forward to take the reins, but before I could hand them over, a booming laugh echoed across the courtyard. "Ha! So this is the new blood the steward promised me!" Sir Roland strode into view, a barrel-chested man with a wild mane of red hair and a smile that split his face like a crack in a granite cliff. He wore no armor—only a simple tunic stained with wine and what I hoped was gravy—and he carried a half-eaten apple in one hand. He clapped me on the shoulder with enough force to nearly knock me over. "Frederick, is it? Good! We've been sorely in need of fresh hands around here. Tell me, boy, can you swing a sword as well as you sit a horse? Because if you can't, we'll fix that soon enough. And if you can..." His eyes twinkled mischievously. "Well, then we'll have some real fun." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight's Welcome (Version 3)" data-color="blue"> The stables were quiet as I dismounted, save for the soft nickering of horses and the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer. I was loosening Thunder's girth strap when I sensed someone behind me—not by sound, but by a subtle shift in the air, a presence that demanded attention without announcing itself. I turned slowly. Sir Roland stood a few paces away, hands clasped behind his back, watching me with the patient stillness of a heron waiting for fish. He was older than I had expected, his hair white as fresh snow, though his posture was unbowed by the years. His eyes were the pale blue of winter skies, and they missed nothing. "You tend to your horse before yourself," he observed quietly. "That is the first lesson most squires must be taught. You already know it." He inclined his head, a gesture that felt more like an acknowledgment between equals than a greeting from master to student. "I am Roland. Welcome to Ashenford, Frederick. Finish with your stallion, then come find me in the chapel. Before we begin your training, there are things you must understand about this place." He turned and walked away without waiting for a reply, leaving me with more questions than I had arrived with. </nc-section>