I am not, by nature, a brave man. I am many things—clever, insufferable, devastatingly handsome in the right candlelight, occasionally useful in a pinch—but brave? Saints no.
Brave is for lunatics like Salem, who think the word "suicidal charge" is just another way of saying "fun cardio." Brave is for Rodrick, who insists on holding the line even after his jaw has been relocated to somewhere in the vicinity of his collarbone.
Brave is not for me. Which is precisely why, the second the words "King-Class spell" left Salem's lips, my soul decided to pack its bags, leave a note pinned to my ribs that simply said good luck, and begin hitchhiking to the afterlife.
The effect was immediate. My body did not politely pause to think, "Hmm, Cecil, perhaps we should discuss this," or, "Let's weigh the pros and cons of moving Rodrick's soon-to-be corpse off the floor."
