Chapter 41: The Power of Names

  The sun climbs toward its peak as exhaustion finally claims victory over discomfort. Around me, the others succumb to sleep in various positions of collapse. Even the Gnolls, after posting a single sentry, curl together in their pack formation.

  Only Hynnal remains awake, standing at the platform's edge, experimenting with his new gauntlet. The chains writhe and reform, lifting stone fragments from the ground, only to then crush them into dust.

  Another dazzling demonstration of this world's magic, a power that, unfortunately, none of us can match.

  The pack leader catches me watching and holds my gaze deliberately with a clear message. He has the power. We are beneath his notice except as tools to be used.

  I look away first, not out of submission but pragmatism. Now isn't the time for confrontation. We're weak, injured and too far from any hope of escape.

  But the day will come. Hynnal's greed will push too far. The cracks I saw forming even in his warriors' loyalty. And when that happens, those of us at the bottom might find opportunities in the chaos.

  For now, though, I let exhaustion claim me. My body needs rest desperately, needs time for the repairs to complete.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  The hours after setting bones blur together in a haze of exhaustion and shallow sleep.

  I drift in and out of consciousness, my body demanding rest while my mind refuses to fully let go. Every time I start to sink deeper, some sound jerks me back, be it a distant splash in the water or the scrape of scales against stone.

  When I finally surface into full awareness, the dual moons have already shifted position in the sky. Hours have passed, though my aching body suggests it hasn't been nearly enough.

  I push myself into a sitting position, every muscle protesting the movement. My scales have finished regrowing over the worst of the tears, leaving only faint scars as reminders of the transformation's violence. The bruising has faded from deep purple to a sickly yellow-green, and when I flex my hands, they respond without the trembling weakness from before.

  Not fully healed, but functional. I'll take it.

  Around me, the others are stirring as well. Kor'ik sits nearby, his throat sac pulsing in that rhythmic way that suggests deep thought. The Bog Goblin has curled into a tight ball beside him, finally allowing itself to sleep now that immediate danger has passed.

  Silent Frogman, though I suppose he's not truly silent anymore, maintains his vigil near the platform's edge. His splinted leg extends before him, and I notice he's fashioned a crude crutch from one of the spear shafts.

  Gorvash stirs beside me, his copper scales catching the moonlight. The splints on his arms look secure, and when he opens his eyes, they're clearer than they've been since the trial.

  "Brother." He rumbles, his voice still rough with sleep. "You're awake."

  "So are you." I gesture toward his splinted arms. "How do they feel?"

  He flexes his shoulders experimentally, wincing slightly. "Almost ready for another scrap." His mouth curves into that familiar grin.

  I manage a laugh in response.. At least he still has the energy, though I feel that it won't be long until this next scrap.

  Gorvash notices my brooding and bumps his shoulder against mine. "You're thinking too much again, brother."

  "Someone has to think," I reply, but there's no real heat in it.

  "Maybe." He looks out across the ruins, the ancient structures rising from the shallow water like broken teeth. "Sometimes too much thinking makes you not see what's right in front of you."

  Before I can respond, he does something unexpected. He looks at me directly, those copper eyes serious in a way I've rarely seen.

  "You are proper Lizardman now. Full grown." He pauses for a moment and continues, "You need name."

  The naming tradition, something Magba had mentioned in passing but I'd never experienced personally.

  Lizardmen names aren't given at birth, much like some Earth cultures I remember. They're earned through survival, chosen at the transition to adulthood to represent identity, accomplishment, the sum of what you've become.

  I open my mouth, then close it again. I have no idea what to say.

  Gorvash gestures with his head toward the arena we'd left behind. "You've survived things that would kill most warriors and proven yourself many times." He pauses. "You deserve a proper name, brother. A great name for a great Lizardman."

  The statement hangs in the air between us, weighted with significance I'm not sure I'm ready to accept.

  A name. A real name.

  But even thinking about it feels like betrayal. Like finally admitting that Edgar Sarti is truly dead, and I'm something else entirely.

  "I already have a name," I say quietly. "Edgar. That was... that is my name."

  Gorvash's expression shifts to confusion. "Ed-garr? Strange sound. Not proper Lizardman name."

  "No." I look down at my clawed hands, so different from the soft fingers that once manipulated pipettes and microscopes. "It's from... before. From a life I barely remember now."

  The lie tastes bitter, because I remember that life with perfect clarity. Every lecture hall, every research paper and coffee-stained lab coat. Every moment with Victoria before it all went wrong. Those memories are vivid, painful, and increasingly feel like they belong to someone else.

  "Before-life names are for shamans and mystics," Gorvash says thoughtfully. "They speak to spirits, remember past cycles. Is that what you are, brother? Are you spirit-touched?"

  I almost laugh at how close he is to the truth. "I don’t know, perhaps something like that."

  "Then maybe you need two names." His copper eyes gleam with enthusiasm for the idea. "Ed’garr for the spirit things. And a proper Lizardman name for who you are now. Many great warriors carried multiple names, like one for their warrior-self, and another as they grew in power and legend."

  The concept is appealing in its simplicity, but something inside me knows that Edgar Sarti died in Indonesia. That person, that life, is gone and I feel that trying to hold onto it would be futile and ultimately self-destructive.

  But I'm not just a Lizardman either. I carry too much of my human heritage, too many memories and knowledge and ways of thinking that don't fit this brutal world's reality.

  "I'll think about it," I say.

  "Don't think too long, brother." Gorvash grins. "Names have power. The right one might help you survive what comes next."

  Movement across the platform interrupts our conversation. Kor'ik approaches, his webbed feet making soft slapping sounds against the stone. The translator's expression is complex as always, calculation mixed with something approaching genuine concern.

  "Forgive the interruption," he says in Lizardtongue, though his accent makes the words sound slightly off. "But I couldn't help overhearing your discussion about names."

  "Eavesdropping is rude, frog," Gorvash growls, but there's no real threat in it.

  "Perhaps." Kor'ik settles nearby, careful to maintain a respectful distance. "But in my defense, you weren't exactly whispering." He looks at me with those bulging amphibian eyes. "Naming customs vary greatly between species. Among my people, names are gifts given by elders when we reach maturity. They reflect not just individual achievement, but family lineage and social position."

  "Sounds complicated," I say.

  "It is." A hint of something bitter enters his voice. "My full name is Kor'ik vel Mursha tel Vex'qua. The 'vel' denotes my father's line, 'tel' my mother's, and 'Vex'qua' is my clutch-designation within the breeding pools." He pauses. "But as a slave, I'm just Kor'ik now. The rest was stripped away when I was captured."

  The pain in those words is palpable. His entire identity, his family history, his place in Frogman society, all reduced for the convenience of his captors.

  "I'm sorry," I say, and mean it.

  Kor'ik waves a webbed hand dismissively, though his throat sac pulses with suppressed emotion. "It is what it is." He looks between Gorvash and me. "But if you're choosing a name, choose carefully. Names are more than sounds. They're declarations of intent."

  The philosophical turn catches me off guard. This is a different side of Kor'ik than the arrogant translator or the terrified captive. Someone thoughtful, shaped by loss and survival.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Before I can respond, the Bog Goblin stirs from its rest, chittering softly. It approaches our little group with obvious hesitation, those bulging yellow eyes darting between us nervously.

  Kor'ik speaks to it in what I assume is the Goblin language, though even he sounds uncomfortable speaking it, a series of clicks and warbling sounds that hurt my ears. The small creature responds in kind, its chittering taking on a questioning tone.

  "What's it saying?" Gorvash asks.

  "He wants to know about names too," Kor'ik translates. "Bog Goblins don't have permanent names in their culture. They use sounds that change based on their role in the colony, forager, hunter, breeder, and so on. But since we're away from any colony..." He pauses, listening to more chittering. "He's wondering if he should choose a permanent name. Like the other species do."

  I study the small creature. It survived horrors that would break many larger, stronger beings. Dove into dangerous waters to feed us when we were starving. Showed courage and resourcefulness that belied its diminutive size.

  "Tell him he's earned the right to choose his own name," I say. "If he wants one."

  Kor'ik translates, and the Goblin's eyes widen. It makes a series of rapid clicks, almost excited.

  "He says he's honored by the suggestion." Kor'ik reports.

  A comfortable silence settles over our group. The four of us, of three different species, sitting together under alien moons and discussing something as simple and profound as names.

  It's almost peaceful.

  The moment shatters when a new voice cuts through the night.

  "Interesting."

  We all turn toward the sound. Silent Frogman, the warrior whose name we still don't know, has maneuvered closer on his makeshift crutch. Those intelligent eyes study our group with an intensity that makes my scales prickle.

  "You can walk," Gorvash observes, gesturing at the crutch.

  A slight nod. "Slowly." His heavily accented Lizardtongue still sounds strange, but clearer than before. "Heard... discussion."

  Kor'ik's throat sac pulses rapidly, and I can see genuine nervousness in his posture. This warrior clearly holds some significance among the Frogmen, even if the rest of us don't understand why.

  "Yes," I say carefully. "Gorvash thinks I should choose a proper Lizardman name. I'm considering it."

  The Silent Frogman's gaze shifts to me, weighing, measuring. Then, surprising us all, he speaks again. "Have... proper name. Not spoken... long time."

  Kor'ik leans forward, his earlier nervousness transforming into intense curiosity. "And what would be the name of such a formidable warrior?"

  For a long moment, the warrior doesn't respond. The internal debate clearly playing across his usually stoic features. Whatever name he carries, revealing it means something significant.

  Finally, he speaks. Not in Lizardtongue or Frogman, but in a third language I don't recognize. The words roll from his throat with ceremonial weight, each syllable precise and deliberate.

  "Thrak'zul il'morgar vel Keth'qora."

  The effect on Kor'ik is immediate and dramatic.

  The translator's webbed hands fly to his throat, his bulging eyes going wider than I've ever seen them. He makes a strangled sound, something between a gasp and a croak, and whatever he was holding drops from nerveless fingers to clatter against the stone.

  "You're... you're..." Kor'ik stammers, his throat sac expanding and contracting so rapidly it looks painful. "Keth'qora? But that means... the Royal Prin…?"

  Thrak'zul's expression doesn't change, but I catch something in his eyes, a warning, sharp and unmistakable. Whatever Kor'ik is about to reveal, Thrak'zul doesn't want it spoken.

  The translator's mouth snaps shut with an audible click. He bows his head, a gesture of respect so deep it borders on submission. "Forgive me, honored one. I spoke out of turn."

  "Wait, what's happening?" Gorvash looks between the two Frogmen with obvious confusion. "What's this Royal thing?"

  "Not important," Thrak'zul says firmly, his broken Lizardtongue carrying absolute authority despite the accent. "Past is past. Here, now... we are slaves. All equal in chains."

  But we're clearly not equal, are we? The tension radiating from both Frogmen suggests layers of hierarchy and history I don't understand. Whatever Thrak'zul's past position was, it carried enough weight that even the arrogant Kor'ik treats him with genuine deference.

  I exchange a glance with Gorvash. His copper eyes mirror my own curiosity and wariness. We've been traveling with someone important enough to make a Frogman translator nearly collapse from shock, and we had no idea.

  "Your secret is safe with us," I say carefully, addressing Thrak'zul. "Whatever you were before doesn't matter now. Like you said, we're all slaves here."

  Thrak'zul's gaze holds mine for a long moment, searching for sincerity. Whatever he finds must satisfy him, because he gives a single, slight nod.

  "Appreciated," he says simply.

  The tension doesn't fully dissipate, but it eases somewhat. Kor'ik still looks shaken, his usual composure completely shattered. The Bog Goblin has retreated slightly, sensing the dangerous undertones it can't fully comprehend.

  "Well," Gorvash finally says, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "At least now we know your name, even if we don't know what it means."

  "Means... what I was." Thrak'zul's expression remains unreadable. "Not what I am."

  There's a finality to those words that discourages further questions. Whatever history Thrak'zul carries, he's not ready to share it. And pushing now would only create more tension in a group that can't afford internal divisions.

  I file the information away for later consideration. A royal prince, disgraced or exiled, now bound in magical chains and forced to serve as a slave. The story there must be fascinating, but survival takes precedence over curiosity.

  For now.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Minutes later, a sound from across the platform draws our attention. Hynnal has risen from his rest, the gauntlet on his arm catching the moonlight. The chains writhe around his forearm, their brownish core stone pulsing with steady rhythm.

  The pack leader stretches, testing his injuries. I notice he moves more stiffly than before, favoring his right side. The trials took their toll even on him.

  But he's still dangerous. Perhaps more so now with that artifact bound to his arm.

  Hynnal barks something in Gnoll, and his warriors immediately begin gathering themselves. The discipline is impressive, despite their injuries and exhaustion, they respond to his command without hesitation.

  "What's he saying?" I ask Kor'ik quietly.

  The translator's still visibly shaken from Thrak'zul's revelation, but he forces himself to focus. "He's... assessing the group. Making plans. He says we rest here for the night, but at dawn, we move deeper into the ruins."

  "Deeper?" Gorvash's eyes sharpen. "Toward what?"

  "The heart of the city." Kor'ik's voice trembles slightly. "Where the greatest treasures are said to lie. And the greatest dangers."

  I study Hynnal's gauntleted hand, the way the chains respond to his movements. "He's gotten a taste of real power now. One artifact, and he wants more."

  "Of course he does." There's bitter resignation in Kor'ik's tone. "That's how greed works."

  Maybe something changes this time,' I say quietly

  Gorvash looks at me sharply. "What do you mean, brother?"

  "We're still alive," I say simply. "That's already more than expected."

  Hynnal approaches our section of the platform, and we all tense instinctively. The pack leader's amber eyes sweep over us, assessing our condition with the clinical detachment of someone evaluating livestock.

  His gaze lingers on me longer than the others. I can see the calculation there, weighing my display of power in the arena against my current weakened state. Trying to determine if I'm an asset or a threat.

  Finally, he speaks in Gnoll, his tone carrying the weight of command.

  Kor'ik translates, his voice steady despite his earlier shock. "He says... good. The slaves are still functional. Tomorrow we venture deeper. There are more trials ahead, more treasures to claim."

  The translator pauses, listening to more of Hynnal's speech. "He says anyone who fails to keep up is… discardable."

  A threat if I ever saw one, and the standard Gnoll philosophy.

  Hynnal's gauntleted hand flexes, and the chains respond with that unsettling liquid grace. For a moment, the core stone flares brighter, and I feel an answering pulse from the mark on my forehead. A reminder that we're bound to him, whether we like it or not.

  Then he turns away, already dismissing us from his attention. His warriors gather around him, and I catch fragments of their conversation. They're planning, strategizing, mapping out tomorrow's route through the ruins.

  "Should rest," Thrak'zul says quietly once Hynnal is out of earshot. "Tomorrow... harder than today."

  He's right, of course. But sleep feels impossible with so many thoughts churning through my mind. Names, power, identity, and the constant underlying threat that one wrong move could mean death.

  I lie back against the cool stone, staring up at the dual moons. The larger blue one is setting now, painting the sky in shades of twilight. The amber moon climbs higher, its light turning everything bronze and shadow.

  Somewhere in the depths of these ruins, more trials wait. More chances to die, or evolve, or both. More opportunities to discover what I'm becoming in this strange amalgamation of human memory and Lizardman biology.

  "Brother?" Gorvash's voice comes soft from beside me. "You still awake?"

  "Yeah."

  "You must choose well. Name is who you are and what you choose to be." Gorvash's words sound both serious and wise.

  Maybe surviving hell teaches everyone philosophy eventually.

  "I will," I promise.

  The Bog Goblin settles near us, its small form curling into a ball. Kor'ik remains sitting upright, his bulging eyes staring into the middle distance as he processes everything that's happened. And Thrak'zul maintains his vigil, that warrior's discipline that never fully relaxes, even in rest.

  What name encompasses everything I am? A Human scientist and Lizardman survivor, driven by curiosity yet living in violence and too stubborn to die.

  I'm both and neither. Something new, created from some cosmic accident or hidden higher power. A synthesis of two completely different existences.

  Should my name reflect this duality? Something to honor both what I was and what I've become, while also pointing toward what I might evolve into?

  Or is it better to try and forget every useless thing from the past and focus on my new life and nature? To embrace the Lizardman and the paths to life of this world with no distractions?

  Maybe some homage to another mythical creature, like “The Hydra”. I do admit it sounds imponent and cool.

  My mind drifts through possibilities, weighting each in turn. Too aggressive. Too passive. Too focused on strength or too focused on intelligence. Nothing quite fits the totality of what I am.

  But that's a decision for another day.

  For now, I close my eyes and let exhaustion finally claim me. The ruins can wait. The trials can wait. The questions of identity and purpose can wait.

  Tonight, survival is enough.

  Tomorrow, I'll figure out the rest.

  Tomorrow, I'll decide who I'm going to become.