When she cuddled with him during his youth, his sister often giggled at the spikes along his back that tickled her. That, in itself, meant more than whatever hypothetical blessing the dragons could offer him. It was the only name he had ever known. If he gave up his name, what else would he concede? Spike shook his head. There was nothing worth that. No roots worth exploring came at the expense of that to which lay upon his principles of self. The singular-word response came as natural as breathing.