Cherreads

Chapter 3 - Nature Of Inheritance

[House Steinfeld Fortress, Kingdom of Valenhall. Five Years Later.]

The forest exhaled mist in the pre-dawn light. Droplets of dew hung from spiderwebs like uncut diamonds, trembling with each careful step Lore took through the underbrush. His silver hair, cropped short against his scalp, collected moisture as he moved beneath the ancient oaks of the Steinfeld estate's hunting grounds—the distinctive metallic sheen already pronounced despite his youth, marking him unmistakably as his father's son.

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 deer hadn't noticed him. A young doe, separated from her herd, grazing on early spring shoots at the edge of a small clearing. Lore 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—the consciousness of Viktor Thorne, Earth's most feared assassin—housed in this child's form, performed calculations with the same cold efficiency that had earned him thirty-seven years of perfect contracts. The Enhanced Perception granted by the goddess filtered through eyes that still held traces of baby fat in the cheeks beneath them.

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.

Lore 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 fortress, the weight of the rucksack significant against his child's frame, Lore reflected on the progression of his "new" life.

'Five years. Body developing on schedule. Fine motor control improving weekly. Physical conditioning progressing steadily, though strength remains limited by youth.'

The abilities granted by the goddess had begun to manifest gradually, as promised. Enhanced Perception had developed first, allowing him to process visual and auditory information with preternatural clarity. The others—Toxin Mastery, Physical Augmentation, Pain Resistance, Lie Detection, and Basic Healing—awaited his body's maturation, though he had yet to access any magical abilities.

The manor came into view as he crested the final hill—a three-story structure of gray granite and dark timber, its architecture blending regional elegance with subtle defensive features. Built to appear as a noble's country estate, it concealed its true purpose behind graceful facades and ornamental gardens. The Steinfeld family crest, carved into the lintel above the main entrance, depicted a silver wolf's head surrounded by thorns—a symbol that spoke to the family's dual nature as both protectors and predators. Smoke curled from the kitchen chimney, signaling that the household was awakening.

Lore 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 grounds.

"Blessed Mother, Master Lore!" she exclaimed, clutching her chest. "You'll give an old woman heart failure, appearing like a spectre with—is that a deer you've got there?"

"Doe. Young adult. Approximately two years old." Lore 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 Lore."

---

An hour later, having bathed and changed into the formal morning attire expected of nobility, Lore entered the dining hall. 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 Evangeline Steinfeld's molten 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. The lustrous metallic strands caught the morning light streaming through the tall windows, creating an almost ethereal quality that made him appear older than his years.

"Lore, 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!"

Lore 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 Evangeline released him, beaming with pride that bordered on radiance. "Damien, did you hear what our son accomplished before most children his age have even finished their morning porridge?"

Lord Damien Steinfeld looked up from the correspondence he'd been reviewing at the table, his stern countenance—marked by the distinctive battle scar across one cheek—softening marginally. Silver threaded his temples, a sign of the burdens he carried as the Crown's shadow. The Steinfeld bloodline was renowned throughout the kingdom for producing children whose hair turned silver early, a genetic marker that had earned them the moniker "The Silver Wolves" among nobility. "Indeed. The servants have mentioned little else since dawn." He gestured to the chair across from him. "Join us, son."

Lore 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 Steinfeld observed, examining the herb-crusted venison. "Not traditional Valenhall cuisine."

"A recipe I... encountered in my reading," Lore replied carefully, maintaining the fiction that his knowledge came from the extensive Steinfeld library rather than a previous life. "The combination of thyme and juniper berries complements the gaminess of venison."

Lord Steinfeld sampled a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then nodded again—this time with genuine appreciation. "Exceptional. You've a talent for innovation, Lore. A rare quality in our line."

Lady Evangeline 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 Lore's hair, her fingers lingering on the silver strands that gleamed like spun moonlight. "And with his father's strong jaw and noble bearing. That magnificent silver hair—the true mark of Steinfeld bloodline. You're the very image of your father at that age, darling."

'Genetic expression consistent with local hereditary patterns,' Lore thought clinically. 'The physical attributes of this vessel were determined by House Steinfeld lineage, not my original DNA structure.' But he merely nodded, accepting the praise as part of his cover.

"He has your eyes, my dear," Lord Steinfeld noted to his wife. "That amber fire. Good. A Steinfeld needs both shadow and flame." He set down his utensils. "Which reminds me—"

A sharp knock interrupted whatever he had been about to say. The steward appeared at the dining hall entrance, his typically composed expression strained. "My lord, the Willowbrook family has arrived. They're... quite distraught."

Lord Steinfeld'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. "Lore, meet me in the training courtyard after you've finished your meal. Today's lesson cannot wait."

"Yes, Father." Lore continued eating at a measured pace, even as his Enhanced Perception caught the sound of sobbing from the entrance hall.

Lady Evangeline'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."

Lore said nothing, but his attention shifted to the window overlooking the manor'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.

'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 Evangeline 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 Steinfeld serves the realm in all things," she often said, "whether through protecting the innocent or ensuring justice finds those who would escape it. We are the Crown's sword and shield, but we must never forget that we serve the people as well."

As she gathered the plates, a porcelain dish slipped from her fingers, shattering against the polished stone floor. "Oh!" she exclaimed, dropping to her knees to gather the pieces.

Lore moved to assist without hesitation, his small fingers deftly collecting shards that his mother might miss.

"Careful, darling, you'll cut yourself!" Lady Evangeline warned, but Lore 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 apothecary that would be suitable."

Lady Evangeline 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 silk-clad bosom.

"You're growing up so quickly," she whispered, her voice catching. "Too quickly. Where has my baby gone?"

Lore 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 Evangeline'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!"

Lore 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 as part of his cover maintenance.

"That isn't true," he said, stepping forward to place his small hand on her arm. "I always will."

The words were calculated—a tactical deployment rather than an emotional truth—but they achieved their objective. Lady Evangeline 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 Lore had yet to be granted access to—lined the walls in meticulous arrangements. The Steinfeld family banner hung from the central pole, its silver wolf's head gleaming against the dark fabric.

Lord Damien Steinfeld stood in the center, hands clasped behind his back, the morning sunlight catching the silver in his hair and highlighting the battle scar that marked his left cheek. He had changed from his breakfast attire into training leathers, his stance that of a man who had spent decades perfecting the art of violence.

"You're punctual," he observed as Lore entered. "Good. Time is a weapon like any other. Waste it, and you waste your advantage."

Lore bowed slightly, the gesture automatic after five years of conditioning in this world's etiquette. "Yes, Father."

Lord Steinfeld 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."

Lore nodded, unsurprised by either the information or his father's directness in sharing it. House Steinfeld served as the Crown's executioners—officially when the law demanded it, unofficially when justice required it.

"You observed the foot," Lord Steinfeld noted. "What else did you see?"

"Discoloration suggesting at least twelve hours in the water," Lore 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, Lore." He began to pace, footsteps silent despite the stone floor—a habit Lore had long noted and incorporated into his own movement.

"To the kingdom, we are nobles who serve the Crown's justice. We investigate deaths, pursue criminals, ensure the law's reach extends to every corner of Valenhall." He stopped, fixing his son with a penetrating gaze. "But when the law fails, when justice cannot be served through conventional means..."

'Steinfeld becomes the executioner,' Lore thought. 'Operating outside legal constraints to eliminate threats the system cannot touch. Exactly as the goddess indicated.' But he maintained a carefully crafted expression of youthful interest and growing understanding.

"The Steinfelds have served as the Crown's shadows for seventeen generations," Lord Damien continued. "We eliminate threats that cannot be addressed through conventional justice. We ensure that those who would escape consequences through wealth, influence, or political protection face judgment nonetheless. Our family motto, 'Veritas per Umbram'—Truth Through Shadow—speaks to this sacred duty."

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 the realm might remain clean. We commit necessary darkness to preserve the light. The silver in our hair is said to be blessed by the moon goddess herself, marking us as her chosen instruments of justice."

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 and political connections. But justice..." His eyes hardened, the scar across his cheek seeming to deepen. "Justice will find him nonetheless."

Lore watched, recognizing the speech for what it was—preparation for the formal commencement of his training as a Steinfeld 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 threading their hair and the scars marking their faces.

"Tomorrow morning, your real education begins," Lord Steinfeld declared, placing a hand on Lore'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 serve justice when the law fails. How to be both the Crown's sword and its shield."

His grip tightened slightly. "One day, you will take my place. You will serve Valenhall as I have, as your grandfather did, as all Steinfelds have since the kingdom's founding. The bloodline has never failed in its duty—we have been the realm's silent guardians for over four centuries. It is both our burden and our honor."

Lore bowed his head in acceptance. "I understand, Father."

Lord Steinfeld ruffled his son's silver hair—a rare display of affection, his weathered fingers catching the light reflecting off the metallic strands. "I believe you do, more than most children your age could. You were born for this, Lore. I've known it since you first opened your eyes and looked at me with such... intensity. And that silver hair—it appeared so early, marking you as a true Steinfeld from birth. The old wives say when a Steinfeld child's hair turns silver before their first birthday, they're destined for great things."

'You have no idea how right you are,' Lore thought, maintaining his facade of filial respect. 'I was literally reborn for an assassination—just not the ones you have in mind.'

As his father began outlining the regimen that would commence the following day, Lore's thoughts drifted momentarily to his true target. Seraphina Dragonheart would be five now as well, beginning her own journey toward the destiny the goddess sought to prevent.

Fifteen years remained before her twentieth birthday and the Celestial Convergence. Fifteen 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.

The irony was not lost on him—House Steinfeld would train him to become the perfect assassin, never knowing they were honing the blade that would one day strike at the very heart of heroism itself.

Somewhere in the distance, in House Dragonheart's territories, a red haired child played in gardens she would never see again. The shadow had been cast; now it only remained to see how far it would reach.

More Chapters