How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)
Chapter 82: How to Get a Forced Promotion (3)

Chapter 82: How to Get a Forced Promotion (3)

Mordrek sat on a broken crate behind his pathetic circus tent, the moonlight turning the stripes of the canvas into prison bars around us.

He had that familiar smirk that looked like it was borrowed from a weasel with social aspirations. The glow from the half-dead torch cast shadows on the ground that danced like they were trying to escape his bullshit.

He scratched at the stubble on his chin, like he was trying to summon wisdom through friction.

"So you want Silven Dorne," he said at last, drawing out the words as though savoring them like fine wine that had, regrettably, turned to vinegar.

"I don’t want him," I corrected, arms folded tight across my chest, eyes locked on his ratty silhouette. "I want the chance to have a very unfriendly conversation with him before someone else buries my boss and pins the whole thing on me."

Mordrek nodded slowly.

"Fair." He let out a breath like he’d been holding it in preparation for a punchline. "He’s not coming straight in like some idiot baron on parade. He’s smarter than that. Traveling in a small party. Two guards, no more. Quiet. He wants to look humble. Respectable. Harder to pin as the executioner when he arrives with no fanfare."

I shifted against the crate, feeling the stiff canvas behind me creak in protest.

"Where."

Mordrek grinned.

"That’s the thing. He’ll be on the south road. The old one. Not the trade road everyone else takes, because it’s too open. He’s meeting with the local heads in Ashveil at dawn. But he’s moving tonight. No big caravan. Just two guards, a small lantern wagon, and a horse he probably calls ’Virtue’ while he sharpens his knives."

I spat on the ground, watching the dark stain spread through the dirt.

"So you know where."

"I know enough." He lifted a hand, waggled the fingers. "I can point you to the right path. I even know one or two of the guards on his payroll. Honest types who’d sell their mothers for a silver coin."

I narrowed my eyes.

"And you’re just telling me this. Out of the kindness of your black little heart."

He snorted.

"No. I’m telling you this because if he burns the paper trail in Ashveil, he burns everyone who’s been near it. Including me. Including my ’beloved audience’ who, let’s face it, couldn’t pay me enough to get caught in a fire they didn’t start."

I rubbed at my jaw.

"He’ll be cautious."

"Overcautious," Mordrek agreed. "Which is why you’ll need to catch him off guard. Preferably when he’s pissing in the weeds."

"Charming imagery."

"I’m an artist."

I studied him for a moment, that ragged silhouette, the half-grin that never touched his eyes, the slumped posture that pretended relaxation while his fingers twitched like they were counting escape routes.

"Alright," I said. "You help me get close. After that? We’re square."

"Square-ish," he replied. "I help you live, you help me live. Let’s not overcomplicate it."

I didn’t answer.

We both knew it was the best deal either of us would get.

By the time I left Mordrek’s "camp," the moon was high and leering down at Ashveil like it was taking bets on who would survive the week. I didn’t bother returning to my room at Lina’s. Didn’t bother sending word to Thalia. I just went.

South road.

The old one.

The path that merchants didn’t use because it was narrow and choked with roots. A winding thing that slithered through old oak groves and crumbling stone fences that had long since forgotten the names of the men who built them.

I moved like a ghost.

I wore the dark coat Thalia had picked for me, now dirty enough to blend with the trees. I left my badge from Marlow’s office behind. I didn’t need it. Out here, it was just weight.

Hours passed in silence, broken only by the shuffle of leaves, the chirp of night insects, the distant cry of something hunting something else.

And then I saw them.

A single lantern glowing ahead, bobbing like a will-o’-the-wisp. Two shapes flanking it. The clink of armor, soft enough to say these weren’t parade guards. Professionals.

I watched from the trees, breath slow.

I had been following the old south road for hours before I even saw the first hint of them, and it was the kind of work that demanded more patience than sense. The path itself was a cruel thing—no well-tended trade road with hard-packed dirt and polite signposts pointing you toward a warm inn. This was the old path, the one the city had quietly stopped funding, the one traders used only if they had no better option or no intention of being seen.

It twisted through the remnants of abandoned farms where fences had fallen and weeds grew so tall they hid the stones meant to mark property lines. Trees hunched overhead in a conspiracy of shadows, their roots like claws bursting from the ground to catch the unwary. The air smelled of damp earth and rotting leaves, tinged with the faint, bitter scent of moss. Every time I stepped on a twig I winced, cursing myself, even though the wind was constant enough to cover most small sounds.

Twice I lost the road entirely when it split into game trails choked with bramble. I had to circle back each time, checking the terrain for marks of the old cobble beneath the mud. I found grooves in places where wagon wheels had once bitten deep, now half-swallowed by time and neglect.

I didn’t travel openly. I slipped from tree to tree, keeping the path in sight but never crossing it unless I had to. The moon was no friend of mine tonight—it seemed determined to glare at the world, casting hard silver outlines on anything foolish enough to move in the open. I kept to the darker bands, testing each step with the toe of my boot before putting down full weight.

There were sounds. Forest sounds.

Rustles that might have been wind, or rodents, or something worse. A soft hoot of an owl somewhere overhead, sounding offended by my intrusion. Once, the scream of some unlucky animal meeting teeth in the dark. It all felt closer than it should have.

And through it all, the voice in my head wouldn’t shut up: This is stupid. He’ll be too guarded. Or you’ll get there too late. Or too early. Or maybe you’re following the wrong trail entirely and Mordrek sold you out for the price of a second-hand hat.

But I kept going.

Because the alternative was going back to Ashveil with nothing. Back to Marlow and his smug grin, Thalia with those eyes that said she trusted me more than she should, Lina who pretended not to care but always left food on the stove when she knew I was coming late. Back to everyone who thought I could fix something.

No. I had to get this right.

The terrain finally began to slope downward. I could smell water ahead—there was a stream that cut the road in two before it curved back toward the main trade artery into Ashveil proper. That was the spot Mordrek had mentioned, more than once, in that self-satisfied tone of his like he was selling me a secret that would cost extra if I didn’t thank him properly.

He’d said Silven Dorne would want to cross at the shallowest point to keep the wagon dry. That he’d do it at night to avoid being seen. That his men wouldn’t want to follow the longer, safer bridge route if they could cut half an hour by braving this backroad.

So I waited.

Pressed against the gnarled trunk of a tree that must have been ancient when Ashveil was a trading post with pretensions. My coat, Thalia’s gift, was scratched, mud-stained, the hem torn on bramble, but it was dark enough to blend in. I left Marlow’s stupid badge in my rented room because I wasn’t about to announce "hello, I’m the journalist you want to kill" by flashing city credentials in the moonlight.

And then—finally—I saw them.

It started as a dim glow, bobbing and swaying in the wind, like some drunken spirit too polite to go straight to hell. It didn’t move quickly. It had the careful rhythm of people who weren’t in a hurry but weren’t relaxed either.

As it approached, I picked out the details.

A small wagon—nothing grand, no coat-of-arms or gilding to draw attention, just practical oak with iron-capped wheels muffled in rags to keep noise down. One lantern hung from the side, swaying with the motion, making the shadows dance like they were arguing among themselves.

Two shapes walked ahead. Armored. The glint on their bracers was dull, well-used, the kind of equipment that didn’t impress anyone but didn’t fail you when it mattered. Not parade guards. Professionals. The kind of men who didn’t talk unless there was a reason.

Behind them rode the man himself.

Silven Dorne.

He sat straight on a black horse that seemed bred to match his sense of self-importance. Cloak thrown back over one shoulder so the silver clasps caught the lantern light. He held the reins like they were part of him, his posture impeccable, neck stiff as truth in a confession booth.

I stayed there, breath slow, eyes locked on him while they picked their way through the rough road. Watching for the moment. Waiting for the first sign that he was human enough to stop.

Because he would.

They all did.

Everyone had to piss sometime.

And all I needed was that one unguarded moment.

Silven Dorne himself rode a slim black horse, posture straight as a rod, cloak draped with careful asymmetry like he’d practiced it in a mirror. Even in the shifting lantern light I could see the smug self-certainty in the way he held the reins.

Elegant. Precise.

And every bit the monster Mordrek described.

They paused at a curve in the road.

Silven dismounted.

He gestured to the guards, dismissive but polite, the sort of command you only give if you expect instant obedience. They moved away slightly, pretending privacy while actually scanning the trees for idiots like me.

Silven stepped to the side of the path, fumbling with his belt in the universal sign of "nature calls."

I moved then.

No sound.

No hesitation.

By the time he realized he wasn’t alone, I was close enough to smell the imported oils in his hair.

"Evening," I said.

He froze.

The horse snorted behind him, shifting nervously.

He didn’t look at me right away. He finished pissing with deliberate slowness, then shook his hands, adjusted his cloak, turned with a polite, chilling smile.

"Ah. Mister...?"

"Dante," I said. "Though I suspect you know that already."

He regarded me the way one might regard a particularly noisy stain on white linen.

"Ah. The... associate of Mister Marlow."

"Funny word for it."

Silven sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear with gloved fingers. His voice was the kind you heard in courtrooms and funerals: respectful, calm, bored with your suffering.

"You know, I much prefer these little chats when they’re properly scheduled. Interrupting a man’s... meditations is rather rude."

"I’m sentimental," I replied. "Wanted a private audience."

The smile didn’t move, but the eyes did. Sharp. Cold. Measuring.

"Are you planning to kill me, Mister Dante?"

"Would it matter if I said yes?"

He spread his hands slightly.

"I imagine it would complicate my schedule. But in the end? No. I’ve been threatened by better men."

I let the silence stretch, watching his face.

He was older than me by a decade at least, but well-preserved, the kind of man who paid to hide his vices. Thin scars at the edge of his mouth told me he’d been cut once and learned to talk faster. The eyes were steel. The posture was unbreakable.

He wasn’t a thug. He was a bureaucrat sharpened into a dagger.

And he knew it.

"Your guards won’t hear you," I said.

He glanced briefly at them.

"No," he agreed. "But they’ll find my body eventually."

I smiled.

"Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not here to kill you."

He let out a disappointed noise.

"Ah. Blackmail, then. How very Ashveil of you."

"I want information."

He clicked his tongue.

"I don’t recall offering any."

"Let me phrase it another way," I said, stepping closer. "You’re going to tell me how this ends. How many people you plan to kill. Who you’re taking out first. And how much you’re being paid to bury the truth in that pretty mouth of yours."

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

Just watched me with that slight tilt of the head.

"Mister Dante, you’re very emotional. That rarely ends well in negotiations."

I chuckled.

"I’m not negotiating yet. I’m offering you a chance to talk before I start making your job very, very messy."

He paused.

"Messy how?"

I leaned in.

"Ever heard of Brelgrik?"

That did it.

A flicker in the eyes. Barely there. But real.

I saw it.

He shifted his weight slightly, cloak brushing the ground.

"Now that," he said softly, voice cooling to absolute zero, "is a name I didn’t expect you to know."

I didn’t respond. Just waited.

Silven drew a slow, measured breath.

Then he smiled again.

But this time it was all teeth.

"Well," he said. "Perhaps we can negotiate after all."