The Villain's Guide to Not Dying Twice

Chapter 3: Wine, Women, and Wickedness

The heavy iron shackles clinked rhythmically against the stone floor of the Iron Spire’s corridor, a sound that should have been a death knell. Instead, Mordren whistled a jaunty tune, his gait more suited to a ballroom than a dungeon.

"You’re surprisingly chipper for a man who’s about to be stripped of his soul," Lucivar whispered, clutching a stack of legal transcripts as if they were a holy shield.

"Style over substance, Luci," Mordren replied, flashing a grin at the stone-faced guards. "Besides, I’ve got a feeling my stay here is going to be shorter than a virgin’s first time."

"My Lord, please! The guards have ears!"

"And hopefully a sense of humor. Hey, big guy," Mordren said, nudging the guard to his right. "Do you think the executioner takes requests? I’ve always thought a guillotine was a bit too 'French Revolution.' I’m more of a 'trial by combat' enthusiast. Especially if the combat involves a very large bed and some silk sheets."

The guard didn’t blink, but his grip on his halberd tightened.

"Mordren!" A sharp, icy voice cut through the damp air.

Standing at the end of the hall was a woman who looked like she’d been carved out of obsidian and moonlight. Serilda Darkwyn, Mordren’s older sister, didn't do 'warm and fuzzy.' She wore a gown of midnight blue that looked like it was woven from the shadows he was supposed to control.

"Sister dear!" Mordren called out. "Did you come to bail me out, or are you just here to measure me for a coffin? I’m a forty-two long, if you’re wondering."

Serilda signaled the guards to stop, her eyes narrowing. "Get those chains off him. Now."

"Lady Darkwyn," the guard stammered. "The Arbiter’s orders—"

"The Arbiter’s orders are currently being debated by the Royal Council," Serilda snapped, stepping into the torchlight. "As it turns out, my brother’s 'Procedural Usurpation' play was actually legally sound. Until a member of the Royal Family arrives to oversee the sentencing, the Duke of Shadows remains a ward of the Darkwyn estate. Now, unless you want to explain to the High Queen why you’re violating the Sovereign’s Code, remove the steel."

The guards hesitated, then fumbled with the keys. The moment the shackles hit the floor, Mordren rubbed his wrists, winking at his sister.

"I knew you loved me," he said.

"I don't love you. I need you," Serilda hissed, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him toward a waiting carriage. "Evelisse Nightrose is hosting the 'Judgement Gala' tonight. She’s planning to present the Shadow-Link evidence to the entire nobility. If those papers go public, not even the Sovereign’s Code will keep your head on your shoulders."

"A gala? Tonight?" Mordren hopped into the carriage, settling into the velvet cushions. "Man, I hope I have something to wear. My current doublet is a bit 'arrest-chic.'"

"Shut up, Mordren," Serilda said, sitting across from him. Her face was a mask of cold calculation. "You’re going to that gala. You’re going to play the part of the arrogant, unbothered heir. And while everyone is busy watching you be a public nuisance, you’re going to find her private study and steal that diary."

"The diary?" Mordren raised an eyebrow. "I thought we were looking for contracts."

"The contracts are in the diary. It’s her personal record of every deal, every murder, and every 'Shadow-Link' she’s ever brokered. It’s your only leverage."

"Got it. Break in, steal the book, don't get caught. Standard Tuesday," Mordren said, leaning back. "But what about Isolde? You know she’ll be there, hovering like a very beautiful, very lethal fly."

Serilda’s lips curled into a tiny, dangerous smile. "That’s why you’re going to distract her. Use that 'physical magnetism' the bards keep singing about. Make her want to kill you, or kiss you. Ideally both. Just keep her away from the upstairs wing."

*

The Nightrose Estate was a sprawling monument to excess. Gold-leafed gargoyles stared down at a sea of carriages, and the scent of expensive perfume and roasted pheasant was thick enough to choke a horse.

As Mordren stepped out of the carriage, Serilda on his arm, the music—a sweeping, orchestral piece—seemed to falter for a heartbeat. Heads turned. Whispers rippled through the crowd like a wildfire.

"Is that him?"

"The traitor? How is he not in the Spire?"

"Look at that smile. He’s truly a monster."

"You hear that, Serilda?" Mordren whispered, his voice loud enough to carry. "They’re talking about my smile. I knew the whitening strips were a good investment."

"Keep walking, you idiot," Serilda muttered through a fixed, aristocratic smile.

"Mordren Valcrux," a voice boomed.

Evelisse Nightrose stood at the top of the grand staircase. She was a vision in blood-red lace, her dark hair pinned back with rubies. She looked like a woman who could ruin a man’s life and expect a 'thank you' afterward.

"Evelisse," Mordren said, bowing deeply. "You look stunning. Is that the 'I’m-about-to-execute-my-ex' collection? It’s very flattering on your skin tone."

"You’re bold to show your face here, Mordren," Evelisse said, her eyes flashing with a mixture of hatred and something that looked suspiciously like hunger. "Most men would be halfway to the Northern Hegemony by now."

"And miss your hospitality?" Mordren climbed the stairs, stopping just a breath away from her. The air between them hummed with a toxic energy. "I heard you had some papers to show the class. I thought I’d come by and see if you needed help with the reading. I know the big words can be tricky for you."

Evelisse reached out, her gloved fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "The only thing you’ll be reading tonight is your own death warrant. Enjoy the wine, Duke. It’s the last vintage you’ll ever taste."

"I’ll drink to that," Mordren said, leaning in to whisper in her ear. "By the way, that perfume... is it 'Desperation'? Or just 'Second Place'?"

Before she could slap him, he danced away, disappearing into the crowd with a laugh.

He needed to get to the gardens. The service entrance to the private wing was hidden behind a trellis of moonlight roses. But as he stepped onto the terrace, the air grew cold.

A shadow moved against the marble balustrade.

"Planning a quick exit, Mordren?"

Isolde Raventhia stepped into the moonlight. She wasn't in her armor tonight. She wore a gown of shimmering white silk that clung to every curve, though the heavy broadsword strapped to her hip ruined the 'damsel' aesthetic.

"Isolde," Mordren breathed, leaning against a pillar. "You look... wow. If I knew the 'hero of the realm' cleaned up this well, I would have committed treason months ago just to get you to chase me."

Isolde didn't move, but her gaze was like a physical weight. "The Arbiter is furious. He says you’re a cancer on the crown."

"And what do you say?" Mordren asked, stepping closer. The smell of jasmine and iron from the hall was replaced by her scent—cold air and something sweet, like clover. "You’re the one who had me pinned to the floor this morning. You tell me, Isolde. Did I feel like a cancer? Or did I feel like a man who knows exactly how fast your heart beats when I touch you?"

"Stop it," she whispered, her hand moving to the hilt of her sword. "Your words are poison."

"Then why are you still listening?" Mordren was inches away now. He reached out, his hand hovering near her waist, not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat. "You could have turned me in. You could have let the guards take me. But you’re here. In the dark. With the 'monster.'"

Isolde looked up at him, her icy blue eyes wide and clouded with a conflict she couldn't hide. "I want to believe you’re the man the scrolls say you are. I want to hate you with everything I have."

"But?"

"But when I look at you now... I don't see the Duke of Shadows," she confessed, her voice trembling. "I see someone... new. Someone who looks at the world like it’s a joke he’s finally understood."

Mordren’s expression softened. For a second, the mask of the witty transmigrator slipped. "Maybe I am new. Maybe I’m just a guy trying not to get his head chopped off. What do you say, Isolde? One night of peace? No swords. No treason. Just... this?"

He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. He felt her shudder, her breath hitching in a way that had nothing to do with combat.

"I have to watch you," she whispered, her hands coming up to rest on his chest, though whether to push him away or pull him closer, neither of them knew. "It’s my duty."

"Then watch me," Mordren murmured, his hand finally settling on the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. The silk of her dress was thin, and he could feel the vibrant, electric warmth of her skin. "Watch me all night. I promise I’ll make it worth your while."

The tension was a physical cord, pulling tighter and tighter. Isolde’s eyes dropped to his lips, her own parting slightly. For a heartbeat, the world stopped.

Then, the sound of a distant door clicking shut snapped the cord.

"I have to go," Mordren whispered, giving her a quick, devastatingly charming wink. "Duty calls. And by duty, I mean I really need to find the bathroom. This wine is doing numbers on my bladder."

"Mordren—!"

He was already gone, melting into the shadows of the trellis before she could draw her breath.

*

The upstairs wing was silent, the sound of the gala muffled by thick carpets and stone walls. Mordren moved with a grace he didn't know he possessed, his 'villain' instincts guiding him toward the largest door at the end of the hall.

Evelisse’s study.

He picked the lock with a hairpin he’d swiped from Serilda, the mechanism clicking open with a satisfying thump. The room smelled of old parchment and expensive tobacco.

"Okay, where would a vixen hide her secrets?" Mordren muttered, scanning the desk.

Nothing.

He checked the bookshelf, pulling at the titles. 'The Art of Poisoning,' 'Tax Law for the Elite,' 'How to Marry a King.'

"Boring. Boring. Cliché."

He noticed a small, leather-bound book tucked behind a bust of the First Queen. It was unassuming, held shut by a simple silver clasp. He grabbed it, his heart hammering in his chest.

CRACK.

The sound of a heavy boot on the floorboard outside froze him in place.

"I know you’re in there, Valcrux," a deep, gravelly voice echoed.

Mordren cursed under his breath. Severian Dreadmoor. The King’s Shield. A man who was essentially a human tank with a grudge against anything that breathed without permission.

"Severian!" Mordren called out, frantically stuffing the diary into the waistband of his trousers. "Is that you? Come in! I was just admiring the drapery. Evelisse has such... eclectic taste."

The door flew open. Severian stood there, his massive frame filling the threshold. He wore black plate armor and a look of pure, unadulterated disgust.

"Step away from the desk," Severian growled, drawing a mace that looked like it could crush a dragon’s skull. "The Lady Nightrose said you’d try something. I’m authorized to bring you back in pieces."

"Pieces? That seems excessive," Mordren said, backing toward the window. "How about we compromise? You let me go, and I don't tell the Archduchess about that 'incident' with the shepherd and the blueberry jam?"

Severian’s face turned a deep, mottled purple. "You... you couldn't possibly know about—"

"I know everything, Sev," Mordren lied through his teeth, his hand reaching for the window latch. "I’m the Duke of Shadows, remember? We have a newsletter. It’s very informative."

Severian roared, lunging forward with the mace. Mordren didn't wait. He vaulted over the desk, scrambled onto the windowsill, and threw himself into the night.

He hit the rosebushes below with a groan, the thorns tearing at his silk sleeves.

"Ow... damn it... I really need to invest in some levitation boots," he wheezed, scrambling to his feet.

He didn't stop running until he reached the safety of the Darkwyn carriage, where Serilda was waiting, her face a mask of anxiety.

"Did you get it?" she demanded as the carriage lurched forward.

Mordren pulled the leather book from his pants, gasping for air. "Yeah. I got it. Nearly lost a kidney to a mace, but I got it."

He flipped the book open, his eyes scanning the first page as the carriage lanterns flickered over the paper.

His blood went cold.

"Mordren? What is it?" Serilda asked, leaning in. "What does it say? Is it the contracts?"

Mordren didn't answer. He couldn't.

The handwriting wasn't the flowery script of the Aethelgard nobility. It was crisp, modern, and written in a language he hadn't seen since he died in his apartment.

‘Entry 402: The simulation is holding. The protagonist is reacting as predicted. But the Duke... the Duke is off-script. If he doesn't follow the Chapter Five execution sequence, the entire server will crash.’

It wasn't a diary. It was a developer’s log. And it was written in English.

"Mordren?" Serilda’s voice sounded far away. "Why are you looking at it like that? It’s just gibberish. Nobody can read that ancient tongue."

Mordren looked at his sister, his hand trembling as he clutched the book.

"It’s not an ancient tongue, Serilda," he whispered, a cold realization dawning on him. "It’s a set of instructions. And according to this... I’m not just a villain. I’m a bug in the system."