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<nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: Sir Roland (Version 1)" data-color="red"> The stable boys were already hurrying toward me when I reached the yard, their boots kicking up dust. Before I could dismount, a tall man in dented plate armor strode out from the shadow of the stables. His gray beard was trimmed close, and a scar ran white across his left cheek. "You must be the new squire," he said, his voice deep and carrying. "Frederick, if the letter was true. I am Sir Roland. I have trained every squire in this castle for twenty years, and I can usually tell within a week which ones will survive." He ran a practiced hand along Thunder's neck, nodding in approval at the stallion's strong shoulders. "Good animal. Mind you, he will be yours to groom every morning before dawn. Pride is earned in the stables before it is earned on the field." He looked me up and down, and I felt my face grow warm under his assessment. </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: Sir Roland (Version 2)" data-color="green"> Thunder snorted and tossed his head as I slid from his saddle, his hooves shifting uneasily on the cobblestones. Before I could steady him, a broad-shouldered knight stepped from the stable doorway, smiling beneath a thick salt-and-pepper beard. "Easy, lad. He can smell the oats, and so can I." The knight's laugh was warm and unhurried. "I am Sir Roland. The steward told me to expect a squire today, though I confess I expected someone older." He took the reins gently from my hand and began to walk Thunder in a slow circle, watching the horse's gait with a critical eye. "Fine beast. Better than the nags we get from the southern markets. Do you know how to care for him properly, or did your father spoil you with stable hands?" I opened my mouth to answer, but he was already smiling again, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Never mind. We will find out soon enough." </nc-section> <nc-section data-title="Chapter 1: Sir Roland (Version 3)" data-color="blue"> The stables smelled of hay, leather, and horse sweat, and for a moment I simply stood in the doorway and breathed it in. Then a voice called out from within the dim interior. "Another one come to chase glory and break his neck. Step into the light, boy, so I can see what they have sent me this year." A lean, weathered knight emerged, wiping his hands on a rag. His eyes were sharp and gray, and a silver-streaked braid hung past his shoulder. He wore no armor, only a plain tunic and boots caked with mud, but there was an unmistakable stillness about him, the kind that comes from long years of battle. "Sir Roland," he said, though he did not offer his hand. "I teach the squires in this castle. Most of them leave within a month. Tell me why you will not be one of them." Behind me, Thunder whickered softly, as if he already had an answer. </nc-section>