The next few days passed in a blur.
Nothing major happened—at least, not on the surface. Count Valstein's men were still scouring every corner of the northern territories, chasing shadows.
Chasing me.
The infamous Faceless Imposter.
It would've been flattering, really, if it weren't also mildly terrifying. Posters had gone up in taverns and guardhouses. Rewards were announced. Patrols doubled. Rumors flew like birds drunk on gossip.
And yet… they found nothing.
No tracks. No witnesses. Not even a whisper of where I might be.
It was like I didn't exist.
Which, ironically, was the point.
The Faceless Imposter wasn't supposed to leave a trail. He was a myth, a whisper in the dark. An idea.
…And let's be honest—how the hell were they supposed to find me in the first place?
I drank tea with nobles in the morning and polished silverware in the afternoon. I walked the halls of estates, bowed my head, kept my voice soft, and smiled like an obedient little servant.
