Bearclaw Valley I've heard the mumbling of citadels shifting on this richter scale.

The question hung a moment before an answer came. He did not know how to feel about it and so he felt nothing; deep down it maybe stung, seeing this road-weary stranger who seemed so kind (comparatively, thus far, versus those he knew) and having no real connection to him.

What is your name, boy? The man asked.

The boy blinked at him, not having an answer for this. He was perplexed. There was Astara his once-mother, there was Averna the ghost, and Merrick—who he thought of as father—and even the terrible twins; who was he? Did he have a name too?

Quiet fell upon him. He tried to think back through every moment of his life and recall if anyone ever called for him or used a name—but no, nobody ever had done so. He thought of his brother next and wondered after him, and seemed to stagnate while the man waited.

Don't have one. Admitted the child, finally.