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<nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Knight of the North Gate" data-color="red"> Frederick pulled the reins beside the stables, where lantern light spilled across wet hay and stone. A broad figure waited by the paddock gate, armor dented from old wars but polished enough to gleam even as dusk deepened. “Sir Roland, my lord,” Frederick said, dismounting before his legs betrayed him. “I am here to begin my training.” The knight’s gaze traveled from the stallion’s foam-flecked bit to the squire’s travel-stained coat, then finally to his eyes. “You rode hard to get here, lad,” Sir Roland said, his voice like gravel under a cartwheel. “Too hard, perhaps. But if you’ve the spine to match your courage, you’ll do yet.” He clasped Frederick’s forearm with a grip that tested more than courtesy. “Welcome to Ashenhold,” Roland added. “Mind the horses first, and the men second.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: At the Stable’s Shadow" data-color="green"> The stables smelled of rain-soaked timber and horse sweat. Frederick led Thunder toward the nearest trough, only to find a knight leaning against the stable wall as though he had been waiting there since the sun began to fade. Sir Roland was younger than Frederick had imagined, but no less imposing: dark hair tied back, a sword worn at his hip, and the kind of stillness that made a man think twice before speaking. “You must be the new squire,” Roland said, smiling without warmth. “Frederick, I think they called you.” “Sir Roland,” Frederick replied, bowing as well as exhaustion allowed. “My lady sent me to train under the garrison knights.” Roland studied him for a long moment. “Then you should know your first lesson,” he said, turning toward the stable doors. “In this castle, a squire learns not when he speaks, but when he listens. Follow me.” </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 2: The Steward’s Knight" data-color="blue"> Frederick tied Thunder to the post near the stables, hoping the beast would forgive the haste of his arrival. He was rubbing the stallion’s shoulder when a deep voice broke through the evening quiet. “Not the friendliest way to meet the castle, boy,” Sir Roland said, stepping from the shadows between two stalls. Frederick straightened. “My lord?” The knight wore a surcoat marked with a silver hawk, its edges frayed from campaign. He gestured at the horse without looking at Frederick. “A man who rushes his mount into the yard at dusk will have no time to answer for it when the horses grow nervous.” Frederick flushed. “I meant no disrespect, sir.” Roland’s expression softened just enough to make the scold seem like instruction rather than insult. “No, you meant to impress,” he said. “Welcome to the keep. Let us see whether you can learn the difference.”