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<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Knight's Welcome" data-color="red"> As I dismounted, the heavy scent of hay and horse sweat filled my nostrils. A tall figure emerged from the shadows of the stable, his armor gleaming faintly in the dying light. Sir Roland was a mountain of a man, with a weathered face and a beard streaked with silver. His piercing blue eyes studied me with an intensity that made me straighten my posture instinctively. "So, you're the new squire," he rumbled, his voice like gravel tumbling down a mountainside. He extended a gauntleted hand, and when I clasped it, I felt the strength of a dozen battles in his grip. "I am Sir Roland, and I will be your master these next three years. Pray you have the spine for it, boy, for I do not suffer fools or cowards." Thunder snorted behind me, as if in agreement, and Sir Roland's stern expression cracked into the faintest hint of a smile. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Knight's Welcome" data-color="green"> The stables were bustling with activity as I led Thunder through the courtyard. Stable boys darted between stalls, and the air was thick with the sounds of whinnying horses and clattering tack. Before I could ask where to tend to my steed, a warm laugh cut through the commotion. "By the gods, is that young Frederick? Last I saw you, you barely reached my belt buckle!" I turned to see Sir Roland striding toward me, his arms outstretched in welcome. He was not at all what I had expected—his face was kind, lined with laugh-creases around his eyes, and his smile was as broad as his shoulders. He wore no armor, only a simple tunic bearing the crest of his house, and he smelled faintly of pipe smoke and leather. "Your father sends his regards," Sir Roland said, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to nearly buckle my knees. "Come, let us see to your horse, and then we shall find you a proper meal. A squire cannot train on an empty stomach." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: A Knight's Welcome" data-color="blue"> I had barely slid from Thunder's saddle when I heard the measured crunch of boots on gravel behind me. I turned, and my breath caught in my throat. Sir Roland stood but a few paces away, and he was every inch the legend the bards sang of. A long scar traced from his temple to his jaw, and his dark eyes held the weight of a thousand untold stories. A sword hung at his hip, its pommel worn smooth from years of use. He said nothing at first, merely circled me slowly, assessing me as a butcher might assess a lamb. I felt suddenly small, acutely aware of the road dust on my cloak and the tremor in my hands. "You ride well enough," he said at last, his voice quiet but carrying. "But riding is the least of what you must learn here. Tell me, Frederick—do you know why your father sent you to me, and not to one of the knights at the capital?" I opened my mouth to answer, but found I had no words. Sir Roland's lips curved into a thin smile. "Good," he said. "An honest silence is the beginning of wisdom. Come. We have much to discuss before nightfall." </nc-section>