"Fugan."
It meant fire beneath the ice.
It was not Common Tongue, nor was it that obscure Northern Territory patois.
It was said to come from an Epic passed down through the generations of the "Frostthroat" clan.
As a child, Fugan had always been unhappy with his name.
In his little head, "fire" ought to have been the most powerful thing in the world apart from the clan chief.
It could drive away the cold and bring rare warmth to his people amid ice, snow, wind, and frost.
Even meat that had originally been hard as a rock, meat that made his teeth chatter from the cold when he gnawed at it, became tender, juicy, and so delicious after being smoked and roasted over flames that he almost wanted to swallow his tongue along with it.
And after he learned from the Warriors in the tribe that those mighty Barbarians protected by the Heroic Spirits of their ancestors often had the fiercest rage burning in their hearts as well, he gradually came to dislike his name even more.
Fire should burn bright and blazing, holding nothing back.
It should not be hidden beneath a layer of ice.
Because of that, although the young Fugan had the strongest body among children his age, he rarely proudly introduced the origin of his name the way the little companions around him did.
He would only use the muscles on his arms and a deliberately indifferent expression to change the subject.
But after all, he was still a child whose mind had not yet matured, one who yearned for his companions' approval.
No matter how little he seemed to care outside, whenever night fell and all was quiet, he would always pester his mother before sleep, asking again and again whether his name had