It was early dawn. The forest exhaled mist in the pre-dawn light. Droplets of dew hung from spiderwebs like uncut diamonds, trembling with each careful step Kieran took through the underbrush. His silver hair, cropped short against his scalp, collected moisture as he moved beneath the ancient oaks of the Nightshade estate's hunting grounds.
Five years old, yet his movements held none of a child's clumsy exuberance. Each footfall was deliberate, precisely placed to avoid the crunch of fallen leaves or the snap of hidden twigs. The small bow in his hands—crafted to scale for his diminutive height—was already nocked with an arrow tipped in dulled iron.
The Fang horned deer hadn't noticed him. A young doe, separated from her herd, grazing on early spring shoots at the edge of a small clearing. Kieran estimated the distance at thirty paces—challenging for his current body's undeveloped musculature, but manageable.
'Wind from the east,' he cataloged mentally. 'Slight compensation required. Target unaware. Breathing steady.'
His adult mind, housed in this child's form, performed calculations with the same cold efficiency that had once made Gregor Fidget Scrob the most feared assassin on Earth. Decades of experience filtered through fingers that had yet to lose their baby fat.
The bow creaked softly as he drew. The doe's ear twitched.
'Inhale. Control. Adjust for drop at this distance.'
His aim shifted slightly higher than the deer's heart. The animal raised its head, suddenly alert.
'Three. Two. One.'
The arrow cut through morning mist with a whisper. The doe jolted, tried to leap, then crumpled mid-stride as the projectile found its mark—a clean puncture through the neck, severing the spinal cord. A kill more merciful than this world typically offered its prey.
Kieran lowered the bow, feeling the familiar emptiness that followed a successful elimination. No triumph. No satisfaction. Just a task completed, a variable removed from the equation.
He approached the fallen animal, knife already drawn from his belt. The butchering process began methodically—first the jugular to drain excess blood, then strategic incisions to separate hide from meat with minimal waste. His small hands moved with the assurance of someone who had field-dressed kills in environments from Siberian tundra to Amazonian rainforest.
'Approximately forty pounds of usable meat,' he calculated. 'Liver, heart, and kidneys intact for additional protein sources. Hide salvageable for tanning.'
It took him seventeen minutes to convert the doe from animal to components—a process that would have taken a grown hunter with twice his experience at least an hour. When he finished, the meat was wrapped in leaves and packed carefully in the small rucksack he'd brought, the offal buried to avoid attracting predators, and the bones set aside for later collection.
Nothing wasted. Nothing overlooked. The forest floor held no evidence of his presence beyond a slight depression where the doe had fallen.
As he made his way back toward the manor house, the weight of the rucksack significant against his child's frame, Kieran reflected on the progression of his "new" life.
'Five years. Body developing on schedule. Fine motor control improving weekly. Magic circuits functioning nominally, though channeling capacity remains limited.'
The skills granted by the goddess had unfurled gradually, as promised. Enhanced Perception had manifested first, allowing him to process visual and auditory information with preternatural clarity. Perfect Memory had followed, enabling him to recall every detail of his training with flawless precision. The others remained dormant or partially accessible, awaiting his body's maturation.
The manor house came into view as he crested the final hill—a three-story structure of gray stone and dark timber, its architecture blending regional aesthetics with defensive pragmatism. Smoke curled from the kitchen chimney, signaling that the household was awakening.
Kieran entered through the servants' entrance, nodding curtly to the cook who nearly dropped her rolling pin at the sight of the young lord returning blood-spattered from the forest.
"Blessed Mother, Master Kieran!" she exclaimed, clutching her chest. "You'll give an old woman heart failure, appearing like a spectre with—is that a Fang horned deer you've got there?"
"Doe. Young adult. Approximately two years old." Kieran set his pack on the preparation table. "I'll be preparing it myself."
"But my lord, that's hardly—"
"Please inform my mother and father that I'll be joining them for breakfast after I've cleaned myself." His tone was polite but left no room for negotiation—unusual authority from a child barely tall enough to see over the kitchen counter.
The cook nodded, bemused but long accustomed to the young heir's peculiarities. "As you wish, Master Kieran."
---
An hour later, having bathed and changed into the formal morning attire expected of nobility, Kieran entered the dining room. The venison steaks he'd prepared sizzled on a serving platter, accompanied by wild mushrooms he'd gathered during his hunt and herbs from the kitchen garden, all arranged with a precision that belied his age.
Lady Isolde Nightshade's amber eyes widened at the sight of the platter, then at her son's immaculate appearance—silver hair combed neatly, jacket buttoned precisely, not a trace of his early morning activities evident beyond a certain alertness in his gaze.
"Kieran, darling!" She swept toward him, enfolding him in an embrace that smelled of lavender and the particular perfume she imported from the coastal provinces. "Cook tells me you brought down a deer this morning! All by yourself! My brilliant little hunter!"
Kieran tolerated the embrace, keeping his posture rigid. Physical affection remained a foreign language—one he'd learned to translate rather than speak fluently.
"It was a simple matter of patience and timing, Mother." His vocabulary, like his mannerisms, often startled guests who expected childish prattle.
"You're too modest!" Lady Isolde released him, beaming with pride that bordered on radiance. "Thaddeus, did you hear what our son accomplished before most children his age have even finished their morning porridge?"
Lord Nightshade looked up from the correspondence he'd been reviewing at the table, his stern countenance softening marginally. "Indeed. The servants have mentioned little else since dawn." He gestured to the chair across from him. "Join us, son."
Kieran took his place, noting the subtle nod of approval his father gave to the platter as it was set between them. "The preparation is unusual," Lord Nightshade observed, examining the herb-crusted venison. "Not traditional Cannadian cuisine."
"A recipe I... encountered in my reading," Kieran replied carefully, maintaining the fiction that his knowledge came from the extensive Nightshade library rather than a previous life. "The combination of thyme and juniper berries complements the gaminess of venison."
Lord Nightshade sampled a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then nodded again—this time with genuine appreciation. "Exceptional. You've a talent for innovation, Kieran. A rare quality."
Lady Isolde nearly choked in her haste to agree. "Unprecedented! Our son hunts like a seasoned woodsman, cooks like a royal chef, reads like a scholar twice his age—what can't he do?" She reached across to stroke Kieran's hair, her fingers lingering on the silver strands. "And with his father's distinctive coloring. You're the very image of a Nightshade, darling."
'Genetic drift,' Kieran thought clinically. 'The physical attributes of this vessel were determined by local hereditary patterns, not my original DNA structure.' But he merely nodded, accepting the praise as part of his cover.
"He has your eyes, my dear," Lord Nightshade noted to his wife. "That amber fire. Good. A Nightshade needs both ice and flame." He set down his utensils. "Which reminds me—"
A sharp knock interrupted whatever he had been about to say. The butler appeared at the dining room entrance, his typically composed expression strained. "My lord, the Willowbrook family has arrived. They're... quite distraught."
Lord Nightshade's expression hardened instantly. "Show them to my study. I'll attend them shortly." He rose from the table, napkin placed precisely beside his half-finished breakfast. "Kieran, meet me in the training courtyard after you've finished your meal. Today's lesson cannot wait."
"Yes, Father." Kieran continued eating at a measured pace, even as his enhanced perception caught the sound of sobbing from the entrance hall.
Lady Isolde's expression clouded as her husband left the room. "Poor things," she murmured, her earlier exuberance muted. "Their daughter was found in the river this morning. Terrible accident."
Kieran said nothing, but his attention shifted to the window overlooking the estate's front approach. A simple cart had been pulled up, its contents shrouded with a white cloth that had been hastily thrown over something—someone—with a single pale foot visible beneath the edge. A foot too small to belong to an adult.