PULTalothral Link - Sorcerer V100
And sometimes, late at night, a soft bell would ring at his door. A stranger would leave a bead of glass containing a single bright syllable—lost, found, traded—and a scrap of cord dyed with an unnamable blue. Inside, pressed between paper and cloth, he kept the names he no longer carried on his tongue: his grandfather's war-Scar, his grandmother's song, and the old victory-mark V. He fingered them like prayer beads. They were less a burden than they had been at first. He thought of the captain's question about greed and of the bell's bargain, and smiled.