The corpse on the examination table had been a man of approximately forty years—once a merchant of moderate success, now a puzzle of flesh and cooling blood. Lord Nightshade stood over the body, silver scalpel poised delicately between his fingers.
"Tell me what you see, Kieran," he instructed, gesturing toward the deceased with his free hand.
The preparation room beneath the Nightshade manor was clinically immaculate—stone walls lined with shelves of labeled containers, instruments arranged in meticulous order, drainage channels built into the slightly sloped floor. The air carried the sharp bite of preservative herbs and subtle alchemical compounds that masked the inevitable odor of death.
Kieran stepped forward, standing on the wooden box his father had placed for him to reach an appropriate viewing height. His amber eyes traveled methodically across the corpse, cataloging details with the efficient precision that had made his previous incarnation legendary.
"Cause of death is not the obvious knife wound to the abdomen," he began, pointing with a small gloved hand. "That came after death, based on the minimal blood seepage and lack of vital response in the surrounding tissue. The true cause appears to be the discoloration around the lips and fingernails, suggesting poison—likely nightshade extract, ironically enough."
Lord Nightshade's eyebrows rose slightly. "Continue."
"The calluses on his hands indicate regular work with rope and canvas—consistent with his merchant status, particularly one dealing in imported textiles as the ledger suggests. The slight yellowing of the fingernails on his right hand implies a smoking habit," Kieran took a breath. Not because he was stomped. It was just ironic how this world somewhat had a lot in common with his old world yet nothing at all in common. Then he continued.
"The bruising pattern on his knuckles shows he defended himself in a confrontation within the past week."
Kieran leaned closer, examining a nearly invisible mark on the man's neck. "This puncture wound is likely where the poison was administered—probably via a coated needle or similar slender implement. Based on the entry angle, the assailant was shorter than the victim and approached from behind."
He straightened, meeting his father's evaluating gaze. "The postmortem stab wound was likely added to disguise the true cause of death. Amateur work, suggesting either panic or inexperience."
A moment of silence stretched between them before Lord Nightshade set down his scalpel and regarded his son with what, for him, constituted open amazement.
"That," he said quietly, "was the most comprehensive initial assessment I've ever witnessed from someone three times your age, let alone a child of five."
Kieran inclined his head in acknowledgment, careful not to appear either too pleased or too indifferent to the praise. "I observe what is evident."
"You observe what others miss entirely," his father corrected, something like pride glimmering in his typically stoic expression. "Even my father, who was renowned throughout the territories for his forensic acumen, would be impressed by such precision." He gestured to the corpse. "I've been examining this man for over an hour and reached identical conclusions, yet you required less than a minute."
'Well, I've had rather more practice than most five-year-olds,' Kieran thought wryly. 'Roughly three decades of identifying the optimal methods to create corpses does give one insight into their analysis.'
"I pay attention to your lessons," he said instead.
"Indeed." Lord Nightshade began covering the body with a sheet. "The question becomes: who poisoned Master Lowell here, and why frame it as a simple robbery gone violent?"
"His business competitor across the street," Kieran suggested without hesitation. "The distinctive red dye residue under his fingernails matches the imported Velmorian silks that only Merchant Harrick carries in this region."
Lord Nightshade actually chuckled—a sound so rare that Kieran momentarily wondered if he'd imagined it. "You've been investigating independently, I see. Well done." He finished shrouding the corpse with practiced movements. "We'll present our findings to the constabulary tomorrow. For now, we have other training to attend to."
---
The Nightshade family's training ground transformed after sunset. What served as an orderly practice yard by day became a labyrinth of shadows once the sun descended—deliberately constructed to create patches of absolute darkness interrupted by misleading pools of dim light.
Kieran stood at the entrance, dressed in form-fitting black training attire that his father had presented him earlier. The material was surprisingly sophisticated—lightweight yet durable, with subtle reinforcement at key joints and a weave pattern that minimized noise during movement.
"Tonight," Lord Nightshade explained, emerging from the shadows with unsettling silence, "we begin your education in the family's true art."
Kieran nodded, suppressing the urge to point out that stealth assassination had been his expertise in a previous lifetime. This body, however skilled for its age, still lacked the muscle memory and physical development of his former self.
"The first principle of shadowcraft," his father continued, "is understanding that darkness is not your hiding place—it is your medium. You do not conceal yourself within shadow; you become shadow."
For the next two hours, Lord Nightshade guided Kieran through training exercises that would have been grueling for most adults. They practiced transitioning between light and darkness without creating telltale silhouettes. They worked on footfall techniques designed to distribute weight gradually rather than all at once, preventing the creaks and shifts that betrayed presence.
"Your natural talent is remarkable," Lord Nightshade observed as Kieran successfully navigated a particularly challenging shadow-to-shadow transition that required sliding beneath a suspended obstacle. "But talent is merely potential until honed by discipline."
'If he only knew,' Kieran thought, panting slightly from exertion. His child's body still lacked the endurance he'd possessed as an adult, and the frustration of relearning physical skills he'd once mastered grated on him. 'Still, there's something to be said for his methodical approach. The Nightshade techniques have their merits, even compared to my previous training.'
"Again," his father instructed. "This time, I want you to close your eyes. True shadow-walking requires sensing your environment beyond mere sight."
Kieran obeyed, finding that his enhanced perception skill granted by the goddess made the exercise less challenging than it might have been. He could detect subtle air currents against his skin, minute temperature variations that suggested the presence of objects or openings, the almost imperceptible echoes of his own breathing bouncing back from nearby surfaces.
He navigated the entire course without opening his eyes once, coming to a stop directly before his father.
This time, Lord Nightshade's surprise was unmistakable. "How did you—"
"I listened to your breathing," Kieran explained truthfully, if incompletely. "And felt where the air moved differently around obstacles."
His father stared at him for a long moment before placing a hand on his shoulder—a gesture so uncharacteristic that Kieran nearly flinched from it.
"Your mother always claimed you were a blessing from the gods themselves," Lord Nightshade said quietly. "I'm beginning to believe she might be right."
Something uncomfortable twisted in Kieran's chest—not quite guilt, but adjacent to it. The genuine pride in his father's voice created an emotional response he hadn't anticipated and wasn't entirely equipped to manage.
'Attachment is developing despite preventative measures,' he noted clinically, but the observation lacked its usual detachment. 'This could compromise operational parameters if not carefully managed.'
"Thank you, Father," he replied, uncertain what else to say.
Lord Nightshade squeezed his shoulder once before releasing it. "That's enough for tonight. You've exceeded expectations, and tomorrow promises to be busy with your mother's plans."
---
After thorough decontamination procedures—the Nightshades were meticulous about preventing cross-contamination between their medical work and their home life—Kieran joined his parents for dinner in the formal dining room. Lady Isolde was already deep in enthusiastic monologue about the arrival of her friend.
"—absolutely delightful that Marienne is visiting! It's been ages since House Brightwater graced us with their presence, and she always brings the most fascinating stories from the coastal territories." Lady Isolde turned her radiant smile toward Kieran as he took his seat. "Darling, I've arranged for you to accompany us tomorrow morning. Marienne's never met you, and she'll simply die of envy when she sees what a brilliant son we've produced!"
"Isolde," Lord Nightshade said mildly, "perhaps refrain from suggesting our guest might expire upon meeting our child."
Lady Isolde laughed, the sound like bells chiming. "Oh, you know precisely what I meant, Thaddeus! Marienne appreciates exceptional things, and our Kieran is nothing if not exceptional." She reached across the table to pat Kieran's hand. "You'll adore her, darling. She's the life of every gathering—vibrant, fashionable, connected to all the right families."
"I look forward to making her acquaintance," Kieran replied diplomatically, though the prospect of spending a day with two excitable noblewomen held limited appeal.
"She should arrive within the hour," Lady Isolde continued, barely pausing for breath. "We'll show her every courtesy, of course. I've had the blue guest suite prepared—you know, the one with the Velmorian tapestries that complement her house colors."
Lord Nightshade nodded absently, his attention seemingly focused on something beyond the present conversation. After a moment, he addressed Kieran. "Your performance today was exemplary, son. Both in your academic evaluation and our... private studies."
Lady Isolde clapped her hands together. "Oh! I'd nearly forgotten in all the excitement about Marienne's visit! Tell me everything about the Academy, darling. I want every detail!"
Kieran provided a carefully edited summary of his day, emphasizing the elements that would please his mother while excluding anything that might raise concerns. She practically glowed with pride when he mentioned his unprecedented triple essence affinity.
"I knew it!" she exclaimed. "From the moment you were born, I told Thaddeus you were destined for greatness. A mother knows these things." She turned to her husband triumphantly. "Didn't I say so, dearest?"
"You did," Lord Nightshade acknowledged with a rare smile. "As in most matters, your intuition proved correct."
When dinner concluded, Kieran surprised the household staff by offering to assist with clearing the table—behavior virtually unheard of from nobility, especially a child.
"Master Kieran, that's hardly appropriate," the head housemaid protested when he carried his own plate toward the kitchen.
"Efficiency benefits everyone," he replied simply. "Besides, I'm curious about the new preserving process Cook mentioned for the breakfast pastries."
The truth was more complex than simple efficiency. In his previous life, Gregor had learned the value of cultivating relationships with service staff—they observed everything, were frequently overlooked, and often controlled access to places and information that proved invaluable. Building loyalty among the Nightshade servants was a long-term investment that would likely pay dividends.
'Also,' he admitted to himself reluctantly, 'the simple routine of domestic tasks provides a curiously grounding effect.' It was not something he would have acknowledged in his previous existence, but this second life was teaching him unexpected lessons about the human condition—his own included.
After assisting in the kitchen long enough to gather useful household information and establish himself as unusually considerate for a noble child, Kieran retired to his chambers. He lay in bed cataloging the day's progress with methodical precision.
'My academy positioning is optimal. My status as triple-affinity prodigy established, creating both opportunity and protective camouflage. Initial asset recruitment underway with the Thornfield girl. Elven instructor's interest secured—potential source of advanced Form essence techniques.'
He shifted mental categories.
'Family training: exceeding expectations. Father's shadowcraft techniques complement my previous skills effectively. Corpse analysis capabilities confirmed and enhanced through local methodology. Current physical limitations being addressed through graduated conditioning.'
A strange thought intruded on his assessment: he found himself actually looking forward to his father's next lesson. Not merely as practical advancement toward his mission, but because he... enjoyed the connection forming between them.
'Emotional contamination increasing,' he noted, but without his usual alarm. 'Perhaps some degree of attachment is unavoidable in long-term deep cover operations. As long as it doesn't interfere with the primary objective.'
His thoughts drifted to Lilith Fireheart, the heroine he was born to kill. She would be his age now, being groomed by the Church for her role as savior. Their paths would eventually cross—the goddess had guaranteed it—but much preparation remained before that confrontation.
Kieran closed his eyes, allowing his consciousness to slide into the meditative trance that had replaced normal sleep during his years as Earth's deadliest assassin. 'Progress is satisfactory,' was his final assessment before darkness claimed him.