The problem with success was that people remembered you.
Reed stood on the balcony of the Mezzanine, looking down at the Lobby. It was a Tuesday, which meant the traffic was slow. A few low-level adventurers were feeding copper coins into the goblin-rigged slot machines, and a couple of off-duty guards were nursing ales at the bar.
"Master," Maira said, stepping up beside him. She adjusted her glasses, her eyes scanning the entrance below with the precision of a predator. "They are back."
Reed frowned, taking a sip of lukewarm coffee. "Who? The Tax Collectors?"
"Worse," Maira whispered. "The Simps."
Reed blinked. He searched his memory, digging through the fog of exhaustion and management spreadsheets. Then it clicked. The early days. The three bards who had paid 500 Gold just to watch Seraphine pose on a rock.
"The Balladeers of Bliss?" Reed asked, a groan escaping his throat.
