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 Damien stood over the body, silver scalpel poised delicately between his fingers.
"What do you see, son?" his father asked, nodding toward the corpse.
The preparation room beneath the Steinfeld 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 metallic scent of preservative herbs mingled with the sharp bite of alchemical compounds, creating an atmosphere that spoke of serious work conducted in absolute privacy.
Lore 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.
The knife wound in his belly. That's not what killed him," Lore said, pointing with his gloved finger. "Look at the blood. There's barely any, and see how the flesh around it hasn't swollen? He was already dead when someone stuck him. The real killer's right here." He gestured to the man's face. "Blue around the lips and under his nails. Poison. Nightshade, I'd guess."
His father's eyebrows lifted. "Go on."
His hands tell a story too. Feel these calluses. Rope and canvas, day after day. Makes sense for a textile merchant." Lore paused, studying the man's fingers. "And look, his right hand's all yellowed. Been smoking that Korthian leaf for years, I'd bet."
The boy leaned closer, examining bruises across the knuckles. "Got in a fight recently too. Maybe a week back? These knuckles are still tender."
Then Lore spotted something else... a tiny puncture wound on the neck, barely visible unless you knew where to look. "There. That's where they got him. Small needle, coated with the poison. Whoever did it was shorter than him and came from behind."
Straightening up, Lore met his father's eyes. "The belly wound? That was just theater. Someone wanted this to look like a robbery gone wrong. But they didn't know what they were doing—left too many clues."
A long silence passed before Lord Damien set down his scalpel. When he looked at his son, something like awe flickered across his usually stone-cold features.
"In thirty years of this work," he said quietly, "I've never seen anyone... not even men with decades of experience of reading a corpse like that. And you're five years old."
Lore ducked his head, trying to look modest. "I just... pay attention to what you teach me."
"You pay attention to things I never taught you," his father corrected. "Things most people never notice at all." He gestured at the covered body. "My own father was legendary in these territories for his skill with the dead. Even he would be shaken by what you just did. I've been examining this man for over an hour, and you saw everything I saw in less than a minute."
'Well, I've had rather more practice than most five-year-olds,' Lore 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.
"So," Lord Damien said, pulling the sheet over the corpse, "who killed Master Lowell? And why make it look like a simple robbery?"
"Merchant Harrick," Lore said without hesitation. "The one with the shop across the street. See that red under the dead man's fingernails? That's Velmorian silk dye. Harrick's the only one in town who imports that stuff."
His father actually laughed... a sound so rare Lore wondered if he'd imagined it. "You've been doing your own investigating, haven't you? Clever boy." He finished covering the body with quick, practiced movements. "We'll take this to the constables tomorrow. Tonight, we have other work to do."
---
The Steinfeld family's training ground transformed after sunset. What served as an orderly practice yard by day became a labyrinth of shadows once darkness fell, deliberately constructed to create patches of absolute darkness interrupted by misleading pools of dim light.
Lore stood at the entrance, dressed in form-fitting black training attire that his father had presented him earlier. The material felt sophisticated against his skin... lightweight yet durable, with subtle reinforcement at key joints and a weave pattern that whispered rather than rustled with movement.
"Listen carefully," his father said, stepping from the shadows like he'd been carved from darkness itself. "Tonight you learn what our family really does."
Lore nodded, biting back the urge to mention that assassination had been his specialty in another life. This small body didn't have the muscle memory or strength his adult self had possessed, and that frustrated him more than he cared to admit.
"First rule of shadowcraft," Lord Damien continued, "darkness isn't a place to hide. It's what you become. You don't sneak through shadows... you are shadow."
For the next two hours, Lord Damien guided Lore through 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.
Lore's small frame proved both advantage and limitation. He could slip through spaces that would challenge a full-grown man, but his child's muscles fatigued more quickly than his adult mind expected. Frustration built as techniques he'd once executed flawlessly required conscious effort to approximate.
"Natural talent like yours is rare," his father said as Lore squeezed under a suspended beam without making a sound. "But talent without discipline is just potential wasted."
'If he only knew,' Lore 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 Steinfeld techniques have their merits, even compared to my previous training.'
"Again," his father said. "This time, close your eyes. Real shadow-walking means feeling your way through the dark, not just seeing it."
Lore obeyed, finding that his enhanced perception 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.
The cool night air carried the scent of dew-dampened stone and the faint metallic tang from the training equipment. Each footstep sent vibrations through the ground that painted a picture of his surroundings in his mind.
He navigated the entire course without opening his eyes once, coming to a stop directly before his father.
This time, Lord Damien's surprise was obvious. "How in the seven hells did you...?"
"I listened to your breathing," Lore said, which was true enough. "And I felt how the air moved around things."
His father stared at him for a long moment, then did something he'd never done before, he put his hand on Lore's shoulder.
"Your mother's always said you were touched by the gods," Lord Damien said quietly. "Starting to think she might be right."
Something uncomfortable twisted in Lore'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 Damien squeezed his shoulder once, then let go. "That's enough for tonight. You've done more than I expected, and your mother has plans for tomorrow."
---
After thorough decontamination procedures (the Steinfelds were meticulous about preventing cross-contamination between their medical work and their home life), Lore joined his parents for dinner in the formal dining room. Lady Evangeline was already deep in enthusiastic monologue about the arrival of her friend.
"Oh, Isabella will be absolutely beside herself when she meets you!" Lady Evangeline practically bounced in her chair. "It's been ages since House Ravencrest visited us, and she always brings the most delicious gossip from the coast." She turned her brilliant smile on Lore. "Sweetheart, I've arranged for you to join us tomorrow morning. Isabella's never met you, and she'll positively swoon when she sees what a remarkable son we've raised!"
"Perhaps," Lord Damien said dryly, "avoid suggesting our guest might faint dead away upon meeting our child."
Lady Evangeline giggled like a girl. "Oh, you know what I mean, darling! Isabella has an eye for exceptional things, and our Lore is nothing if not exceptional." She reached over to squeeze Lore's hand. "You'll love her, sweetheart. She's got more energy than a summer storm... always perfectly dressed, always knows exactly who's doing what with whom."
"I'm sure she's lovely," Lore said politely, though the thought of spending a day with two chattering noblewomen made him want to hide in the wine cellar.
"She should arrive any moment now," Lady Evangeline continued, barely pausing to breathe. "I've had them prepare the blue guest suite... the one with those gorgeous Velmorian tapestries that match her house colors perfectly."
Lord Damien grunted acknowledgment, his mind clearly elsewhere. After a moment, he focused on Lore. "You did well today, son. Both at the Academy and in our... evening work."
"Oh!" Lady Evangeline clapped her hands together. "I nearly forgot about the Academy with all the excitement! Tell me everything, darling. Every single detail!"
Lore 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 squealed. "From the moment you took your first breath, I told Damien you were destined for greatness. A mother knows these things!" She turned to her husband with a triumphant grin. "Didn't I tell you, love?"
"You did," Lord Damien said, one corner of his mouth twitching upward. "As usual, your instincts were spot-on."
When dinner concluded, Lore surprised the household staff by offering to assist with clearing the table... behavior virtually unheard of from nobility, especially a child.
"Master Lore, that's not proper," the head housemaid scolded when he carried his own plate toward the kitchen.
"Why not?" he asked simply. "Makes things easier for everyone. Besides, I want to hear about that new way Cook's preserving 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 Steinfeld 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, Lore 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, though I know I possess more affinities than I've revealed, 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 his ultimate purpose... the task the goddess had set before him. The pieces would need to fall into place precisely, but much preparation remained before that confrontation.
Lore 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.