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<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight's Welcome (Version 1)" data-color="red"> The stable hands rushed forward to take Thunder's reins as I dismounted, my legs stiff from the long ride. The scent of hay and horseflesh filled my nostrils, a familiar comfort after days on the road. Before I could even brush the dust from my traveling cloak, a tall figure emerged from the shadow of the stable doorway. Sir Roland was every bit the knight the songs had promised. His silver-streaked hair was cropped short in the practical manner of a soldier, and though he wore no armor now—only a simple linen tunic and leather breeches—his bearing spoke of a lifetime spent in battle. A long scar traced down his left cheek, disappearing into the grey of his beard. "You must be Frederick," he said, his voice deep and measured. He extended a calloused hand, studying me with eyes the color of winter steel. "I am Sir Roland. Your father wrote to me of your coming, though I confess I expected someone... taller." Heat rushed to my cheeks, but before I could stammer a reply, the knight's stern face broke into a surprising grin. "Fear not, lad. I was a scrawny thing myself once. The castle has a way of building a man—or breaking him. We shall see which you prove to be." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight's Welcome (Version 2)" data-color="green"> As I reined Thunder to a halt near the stables, the smell of leather, oats, and smoke greeted me like an old friend. I had barely swung down from the saddle when a booming laugh echoed from behind a stack of hay bales. "By the gods, they've sent me a child!" The man who stepped into view was enormous—easily a head taller than any man I'd ever known, with shoulders that seemed to block out the dying sun. His red beard was braided in three thick plaits, and a warhammer hung casually from his belt as though it weighed no more than a loaf of bread. "Sir Roland, at your service," he said, though his grin suggested he was mostly amused by his own greeting. He clapped a massive hand on my shoulder, and I nearly buckled beneath the weight of it. "And you would be young Frederick, the squire I've been promised. Tell me, boy, can you swing a sword, or have you come here merely to polish mine?" I opened my mouth, though no words came. Sir Roland laughed again and took Thunder's reins with surprising gentleness. "Never mind, never mind. Come—there's stew in the hall, and tomorrow we'll see what sort of steel lies beneath that traveling cloak." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight's Welcome (Version 3)" data-color="blue"> I had just begun to loosen Thunder's girth when I felt a presence behind me—the quiet, deliberate stillness of someone accustomed to moving without sound. When I turned, I found a man leaning against the stable post, arms folded across his chest, watching me with the patient interest of a hawk observing a field mouse. He was not what I had imagined. Lean rather than broad, with dark hair pulled back from a weathered face, he wore no mark of rank save for a silver ring on his smallest finger, etched with the royal seal. Yet I knew him at once. There was something in the way he stood—balanced, unhurried, entirely present—that marked him as a man who had survived things lesser men had not. "You've a good seat on a horse," he said quietly. "Better than most who arrive here. Did your father teach you, or the stable master at Ashford?" "The stable master, sir," I managed, surprised he knew of my home at all. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. "I am Sir Roland. I will be your teacher, your tormentor, and—if you survive the first winter—perhaps your friend." He pushed off from the post and stepped closer, his grey eyes searching mine. "Tell me, Frederick. Why have you come to this castle? And mind your answer—I will know if you lie." </nc-section>