The stone floor which had once been cold had grown warm as Waylon sat. The little cell smelled of dirt and faintly of piss. There was a window through which the light of the rising sun shined in, but it brought with it no comfort. There was no comfort to be found here. Not in a place made of hard, cold, stone.

On the other side of the metal bars that left an unpleasant scent on his hands, the guards passed by every now and then to laugh at him. How excited they were to have finally caught the terrifying and terrible, pretty boy assassin. Yeah, Waylon knew what he looked like. He looked like someone who should have had a wealthy lover to spoil him stupid and a fancy house that he charmed his way into. Yet instead he used his pretty face to slaughter dozens of people. They could laugh all they liked. Waylon knew what their bones would sound like when he broke them. He didn't care what they thought of him.

It was Ayen that was the problem.

No, he didn't blame him for it. He wasn't even angry. How could he be angry at him for doing exactly what he would have done. The difference being that Waylon would have stabbed him in the lung and dropped his body on the courthouse steps and taken the lower bounty. Regardless of how expected and fair this turn of events was, he still felt a little bit hurt by it. Yes, he had known Ayen’s intentions all along, but he had trusted him. The stupidest part of all was the jealousy.

Waylon wasn't sure who that woman with him was, but he trusted her. Was that his lover, perhaps? His wife even? She was younger than him, but maybe Ayen didn't care about that. In fact, he'd probably given her his name the first time they met instead of her finding it out second hand. What a stupid thing to be jealous about. It was stupid to be jealous at all.

Waylon was still sitting on the floor pouting when one of the guards walked up and unlocked his cell. They looked over their shoulder, then back at Waylon.

"Let's go," they said. They tossed Waylon a short sword and he caught it with a huff. "Quit your pouting."

Waylon rolled his eyes. "I am not pouting." He followed them out and down the narrow hall. They walked past another guard without a word, but when the guard spotted the escaped prisoner Waylon was forced to stab him through the gut.

"It's just..." he sighed, pulling out his sword. They lifted the body together and tucked it into a cupboard. How did he put words to his feelings when it all felt so complicated?

The not-guard looked at him sideways. "Sure, I get it." They patted Waylon's shoulder. Then they climbed through the window and onto the lower roof.

"Yeah." Waylon nodded. He followed his friend outside. They both pressed their backs against the wall to hide in the shadows as guards passed by above their heads.

"But do you think he meant anything by it?"

They looked at him, then they began to climb down the tower, clinging to empty slots where they had pried the bricks out the last time that Waylon was captured. At the bottom, they hid again in the shadows as a patrol passed by.

"Do I think Ayen meant it personally when he used your own predictability against you and then turned you the city guard?" they asked.

Waylon nodded.

"No, I don't," they said. Then they darted across the street.

Waylon followed. He watched as they stripped out of the guard's uniform until all that remained was plain brown trousers and a ruffly white shirt.

"But do you think he still likes me?" Waylon asked, as they both ducked behind an empty cart as a woman finished hanging the morning laundry and went back inside.

"What's not to like?" They shrugged. "You're gorgeous and intelligent and very skilled with your hands." They wiggled their eyebrows which made Waylon roll his eyes.

The pair crossed through an alley and when they came out on the other side, his companion's hair had grown down to their shoulders. Instead of brown, it was red on one side, blue on the other, and had a streak of green in the front. They walked side-by-side down the street.

"Do you want to know what I think?" they asked.

Waylon tied his long hair back and they offered him a hat to tuck it into. Just in time as the alarm bell began to ring.

"Do I want to know?" Waylon countered.

"Depends on if you want the truth.”

A group of humans in guardsman red and gold ran past in a panic. If they looked at them twice they didn't find cause to turn back around.

Waylon sighed. "Well, I suppose now I have to know."

Phase turned and stopped him. Their strikingly blue eyes searched his face. "First of all, I think you're in love with him." Waylon opened his mouth to protest, but Phase cut him off. "And I also think that there are some things you need to know."

"What kind of things?"

"Things that, if they're true, will likely dissuade your love struck heart."

Phase turned back and started again down the road. It took a second for Waylon to go after them. "What is it that you've heard, Phase?"

They shook their head. "Not here," they said and that was that. They didn't speak the rest of the way. Waylon followed along, head spinning with outrageous thoughts. They made their way to the door to nowhere that made up the entrance to their home. Waylon shook his head, the irony that this should be the place Ayen finally caught him, right here in the alley outside of his own hideout. The elf had no idea what he was standing on top of.

They went inside and Waylon shed his disguise. He sat down and watched Phase expectantly. They were never one for mincing words so Waylon found it anxiety inducing when they stood there clearly debating how to begin.

"Just spit it out," he said.

Phase nodded, though they still looked unsure. "Do you remember some time ago when we heard about a slaughter in Sundermond Grove?"

"Of course I do." Some wealthy, barely of age, lord had taken all of his slaves into the forest and slaughtered them all. He was still wanted by the crown of Treakha. Waylon had vowed to kill the bastard himself if he ever came across them. Waylon knew well what it meant to break your back for an ungrateful lord. To be herded and slaughtered like livestock was a most humiliating and inhumane death.

"It was the newly minted Lord Cyren Valgella who allegedly did it, the nephew of King Hadmir."

"Yes, I know that,'' Waylon huffed. “What's your point, Phase?"

Phase’s expression was severe, holding him captive with nerves. "According to my sources, Cyren Valgella is here in West Catoig and he goes by the name of Ayen Fenfir."

The jolt that went through him was pure ice. Waylon's head began to spin with so many disjointed thoughts. He could hardly stand it. "Your sources are wrong," he said. They had to be. Ayen was kind and thoughtful and he hated murder. He couldn’t be Cyren. Phase must have misunderstood. Someone must have lied to them.

"That could be," Phase said with great caution in their voice. They sounded like they were shushing a feral cat. "You know that doesn't happen often, Waylon."

Tears stung his eyes. He felt nauseous. He felt angry. Why he felt so betrayed he couldn't place. Ayen had never been anything to him but a criminal after his bounty. Yet, every moment they shared felt like a lie.

"I could be wrong," Phase said quietly.

Waylon shook his head. His jaw ticked where it clenched. "We both know you're not." He looked at those inhumanly blue eyes and found everything he needed there. Ayen was Cyren and both would be gone before long.