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<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight's Welcome (Version 1)" data-color="red"> The stables smelled of fresh hay and leather, a comforting blend that reminded me of my father's farm. As I dismounted Thunder, a tall figure emerged from the shadows of the stable doorway. His armor gleamed in the dying light, polished to a mirror sheen, and a crimson cloak hung from his broad shoulders. "You must be Frederick," the knight said, his voice deep and resonant. "I am Sir Roland, Knight of the Crimson Order. I have been expecting you." I dropped to one knee, the way my mother had taught me to greet a knight of the realm. "Sir Roland, it is an honor." "Rise, boy. Save your knees for the chapel." A rare smile crossed his weathered face as he extended a gauntleted hand. "Come. Tend to your steed, and then we shall see what kind of squire the king has sent me. I've trained a dozen boys before you, and I'll warn you now—none of them found it easy." There was a glint in his eye, equal parts challenge and kindness, and I felt a shiver of both fear and excitement race down my spine. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight's Welcome (Version 2)" data-color="green"> I had barely swung down from Thunder's back when a gruff voice called out from behind the stable door. "Took you long enough, lad. I expected you before the sun began its descent." The man who stepped into view was not what I had imagined. Sir Roland wore no armor, only a simple tunic stained with sweat and what looked to be horse liniment. His beard was wild and streaked with grey, and a scar ran from his left temple down to the corner of his mouth. But his eyes—his eyes were sharp as a hawk's. "Forgive me, Sir Roland," I stammered. "The road from Ashford was—" "The road from Ashford is the same road it has always been." He took Thunder's reins from my hands with the ease of a man who had handled a thousand horses. "Excuses are the refuge of poor knights and worse squires. Remember that." I felt my cheeks burn. But then he clapped me on the shoulder, a gesture surprisingly warm given his harsh words. "Don't look so stricken, boy. You are here now, and that is what matters. Come, let us see to your horse together. A squire's first lesson is always in the stables." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight's Welcome (Version 3)" data-color="blue"> The stable yard was quieter than I had expected. A few stable hands moved about their evening duties, but most of the castle's inhabitants had retreated indoors as dusk settled over the battlements. I was leading Thunder toward an empty stall when I heard the soft crunch of boots on gravel behind me. "A fine animal," said a voice, calm and measured. "Stallions of that breed are rare this far north." I turned to find a man of middling years watching me with quiet intensity. He was not dressed as I had imagined a knight would be—no shining armor, no sword at his hip—only a dark green riding coat and well-worn boots. Yet there was something in his bearing, a stillness, that made me certain of his identity even before he spoke again. "Sir Roland?" I ventured. He inclined his head. "And you are Frederick, son of Gerard. I knew your father, once. We rode together in the Northern Campaign, many years ago." My breath caught. My father had rarely spoken of his days as a soldier, and to meet someone who had known him then felt like discovering a hidden door in a familiar room. "He spoke well of you in his letter," Sir Roland continued, stepping forward to stroke Thunder's neck. "Though he did not mention that you had inherited his stubborn jaw. Come, Frederick. We have much to discuss, but first, your horse deserves rest. As do you, I imagine." </nc-section>