Her way of putting it gave the Brucolac pause: sound reason to give myself license to just do what makes me happy. He swept a wash of curls and braids over his shoulder, straightened the pin of his cloak where the force of her embrace had knocked it from position (putting himself back together, small acts of restoration) and walked with her at her silent request.

"Would I want to? Yes. But I would forfeit it, if you believe it would be...best for them not to know, or if the rest of the world knowing me as their father would put them in danger. But then neither of us are without our enemies." He looked to her. "I don't fully understand the northern tradition. I have no family name; have never had one, even with all the names I've gone through. How would they be named for me?"