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<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Knight's Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted Thunder near the stables, a towering figure emerged from the shadows of the archway. Sir Roland, his silver armor still gleaming despite the dust of the day's patrols, strode toward me with a measured confidence that spoke of decades spent on the battlefield. A deep scar traced his left cheek, disappearing into a dark beard streaked with gray. "You must be the new squire," he said, his voice like gravel wrapped in velvet. He extended a gauntleted hand, and I took it, trying not to wince at his grip. "I am Sir Roland, knight of the Iron Vale. I trust your journey was uneventful?" "Yes, my lord," I stammered, suddenly acutely aware of the mud on my boots and the sweat clinging to my tunic. He chuckled, a warm sound that eased the tension in my shoulders. "No 'my lord' here, lad. Save that for the king. To me, you are Frederick, and I am Roland. We have much work ahead of us, and little time for ceremony." He glanced at Thunder with an appraising eye. "A fine beast. Tend to him first. A knight who neglects his horse neglects his own legs." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Scarred Knight" data-color="green"> The stable boy had barely taken Thunder's reins when I heard the unmistakable clink of chainmail behind me. I turned to find a man of perhaps fifty winters watching me with pale, assessing eyes. He was not tall, but something in his bearing made him seem so—a coiled readiness, like a wolf considering whether to pounce or pass by. "Frederick of Ashwood, I presume." It was not a question. "I am Sir Roland. Your father and I bled together at the Siege of Marrowgate. He wrote to tell me you were coming." I bowed deeply, nearly losing my balance. "Sir Roland, it is an honor—" "Honor is earned, not given," he interrupted, though not unkindly. He circled me slowly, studying my posture, my hands, the sword at my hip that was too long for my frame. "Your father was a great man. That buys you my attention, nothing more. Whether you deserve my tutelage remains to be seen." He stopped before me and, for the first time, smiled—a small, crooked thing that transformed his weathered face. "Come. The cook has set aside bread and stew. Tomorrow at dawn, we begin. And Frederick? Leave that pretty sword in your chambers. You'll be training with wood until your hands bleed." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: First Impressions" data-color="blue"> I was still unbuckling Thunder's saddle when a shadow fell across the stable door. A knight stood there, framed by the dying sunlight, his dark cloak pinned at the shoulder with a silver dragon brooch. He was younger than I had expected—perhaps thirty—with sharp features and eyes the color of storm clouds. "You ride well," he said simply. "I watched you from the tower. Most squires arrive slouched in their saddles like sacks of grain." Heat rose to my cheeks. "Thank you, ser. My father taught me." "Then your father taught you well." He stepped into the stable and ran a hand along Thunder's flank, speaking softly to the horse before turning back to me. "I am Sir Roland. I will be your master-at-arms, your teacher, and—if you prove worthy—perhaps one day your friend. But not today. Today, you are a stranger in my castle, and I must take your measure." He gestured toward the keep, where torches were beginning to flicker to life in the windows. "Settle your horse. Wash the road from your face. Then find me in the great hall. We have much to discuss, young Frederick—more, perhaps, than you realize. These are dangerous times, and the realm has need of squires who can become more than mere knights." Something in his tone sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the evening chill. </nc-section>