Kieran who had seen the cart roll by briefly had seen all he needed to.
'Approximately seven years old, based on foot length,' his mind cataloged automatically. 'Female. Signs of prolonged water exposure.' He took another bite of venison, his expression unchanged.
After breakfast concluded, Lady Isolde insisted on clearing the table herself—a peculiarity for a noblewoman, but one she had always maintained was important for teaching humility to the household.
"A Nightshade serves others in all things," she often said, "whether through healing their ailments or easing their passage beyond the veil."
As she gathered the plates, a porcelain dish slipped from her fingers, shattering against the polished wooden floor. "Oh!" she exclaimed, dropping to her knees to gather the pieces.
Kieran moved to assist without hesitation, his small fingers deftly collecting shards that his mother might miss.
"Careful, darling, you'll cut yourself!" Lady Isolde warned, but Kieran had already assembled most of the broken pieces with methodical precision.
"The fracture pattern suggests it can be repaired," he observed, arranging the fragments on the table. "The household has adhesive in the stillroom that would be suitable."
Lady Isolde stared at him, her expression shifting from concern to something more complex—wonder tinged with melancholy. She abruptly pulled him into another embrace, tighter than the first, nearly crushing him against her bosom.
"You're growing up so quickly," she whispered, her voice catching. "Too quickly. Where has my baby gone?"
Kieran didn't struggle against the hold, having learned that passive acceptance was the most efficient path through these emotional demonstrations. "I'm right here, Mother."
She released him enough to look into his eyes, her own shimmering with unshed tears. "But for how long? Soon you'll be a young man, then a man proper, with no time for your poor mother's affections."
When he attempted to extract himself from her grip with gentle pressure, Lady Isolde's expression crumpled. She turned away, one hand pressed to her lips as tears spilled freely. "There, you see? Already you cannot bear my touch. My son loves me no longer!"
Kieran recognized the pattern—his mother's flair for the dramatic was legendary throughout the county. In his previous life, he would have dismissed such emotional manipulation with cold efficiency. Now, however, he understood it to some extent.
"That isn't true," he said, stepping forward to place his small hand on her arm. "I always will."
The words were stiff to the ears—a tactical deployment rather than an emotional truth—but they true and achieved their objective. Lady Isolde beamed through her tears, gathering him close once more.
"My sweet, sweet boy," she murmured. "Run along now. Your father is waiting, and we both know how he feels about tardiness."
---
The training courtyard occupied the center of the manor's eastern wing, enclosed by stone walls and open to the sky. Weapons of various types—from traditional swords and bows to more specialized implements Kieran had yet to be granted access to—lined the walls in meticulous arrangements.
Lord Nightshade stood in the center, hands clasped behind his back, the morning sunlight catching the silver in his hair—the same distinctive shade his son had inherited. He had changed from his breakfast attire into training leathers, the scar across his cheek more prominent in the harsh light.
"You're punctual," he observed as Kieran entered. "Good. Time is a weapon like any other. Waste it, and you waste your advantage."
Kieran bowed slightly, the gesture automatic after five years of conditioning in this world's etiquette. "Yes, Father."
Lord Nightshade gestured for him to approach. "The Willowbrook girl's death was no accident," he said without preamble. "Signs of strangulation before she entered the water. Bruising consistent with adult male hands."
Kieran nodded, unsurprised by either the information or his father's directness in sharing it. The Nightshades were coroners—officially. Their knowledge of human anatomy and the various ways it could fail was their public trade.
"You observed the foot," Lord Nightshade noted. "What else did you see?"
"Discoloration suggesting at least twelve hours in the water," Kieran replied. "Slight deformity of the ankle indicating possible struggle or restraint. Nail beds showing cyanosis."
A flicker of approval crossed his father's face. "Your observational skills continue to impress. This is the foundation of our family's true purpose, Kieran." He began to pace, footsteps silent despite the stone floor—a habit Kieran had long noted and incorporated into his own movement.
"To the kingdom, we are coroners. Healers when possible, stewards of the dead when necessary. We prepare bodies for their final journey with dignity and care." He stopped, fixing his son with a penetrating gaze. "But to the Crown, we are something else entirely."
'Assassins,' Kieran thought. 'Executioners operating outside the constraints of public justice. Exactly as the goddess indicated.' But he maintained a carefully crafted expression of youthful interest and confusion.
"The Nightshades have served as the kingdom's shadows for seventeen generations," Lord Thaddeus continued. "We eliminate threats that cannot be addressed through conventional means. We excise the diseased tissue from the body politic so that it might heal and thrive."
He approached a weapon rack, removing a slender dagger with a blade that seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. "We soil our hands so that others may keep theirs clean. We commit necessary evils to prevent greater ones."
The dagger spun in his grip with practiced ease before he returned it to its place. "The man who killed the Willowbrook girl is the son of Duke Harmond. The law cannot touch him due to his father's influence. But justice..." His eyes hardened. "Justice will find him nonetheless."
Kieran watched, recognizing the speech for what it was—preparation for the formal commencement of his training as a Nightshade assassin. In his previous life, he had learned his craft through harsh experience and trial by fire. Here, it would be a birthright, passed from father to son like the silver in their hair.
"Tomorrow morning, your real education begins," Lord Nightshade declared, placing a hand on Kieran's shoulder. "You will learn the ways of shadows and nobility—how to move among the highest circles and the lowest gutters with equal ease. How to heal and how to kill. How to be both seen and unseen."
His grip tightened slightly. "One day, you will take my place. You will serve the Crown as I have, as your grandfather did, as all Nightshades have since the kingdom's founding. It is both our burden and our honor."
Kieran bowed his head in acceptance. "I understand, Father."
Lord Nightshade ruffled his son's silver hair—a rare display of affection. "I believe you do, more than most children your age could. You were born for this, Kieran. I've known it since you first opened your eyes."
'You have no idea how right you are,' Kieran thought, maintaining his facade of filial respect. 'I was literally born for a kill—just not the ones you have in mind.'
As his father began outlining the regimen that would commence the following day, Kieran's thoughts drifted momentarily to his true target. Lilith Fireheart would be five now as well, beginning her own journey toward the destiny the goddess sought to prevent.
Thirteen years remained before the Twin Moon Eclipse. Thirteen years to prepare, infiltrate, and eliminate. His second life's purpose was clear, its parameters defined with the same precision that had made his first life so efficiently lethal.
But first, he would learn what this world had to teach him about killing.