They say courage only counts when you can count. And as soon as he learned to count his fingers, Henry became courageous, and has never ceased to be since.

Oh, alright — perhaps others might call his courage mischief-making. But what is the difference? If courage is to dare where others might fall back, then to cause much mischief and break many rules is to be courageous, is it not? Henry is the boy who rode on the fearsome turtle and put his hand in its mouth, and he is the boy who wrote audacious messages to his ancient nibbler teacher. Yet he is also the boy who asked for the claw of the flier no other would even think to bond in fear of rebellion, and he is the boy who set off down the dark river when the Overlander sought to escape, heedless of his own safety.

Henry dares. He counts that as courage. And anyone who does not dare, he counts for a coward.

And such is the Overlander. He clings to the fliers and gasps in horror when Henry tosses Boots over the edge of the pillar in jest. He is completely safe, and yet he does not dare.

Henry despises that kind. No good comes of fear — those who fear die, and those who die in fear are weak. And Henry will never die a coward's death.

Henry will not die. He will make sure of that. His courage will win out in the end — he dared, and thus he lived.

His tongue slips momentarily. "Oh, let the 'warrior'' be, Luxa. He is no good to us dead… yet… and even the bats may not be able to compensate for his clumsiness."

Luxa looks at him. In panic, the sudden fear sending waves of disgust through him, he gives her a jesting look and asks her to race him to the pitch pool. She hesitates, but only briefly. Then they are off, leaping off the pillar and onto their fliers. While in the air, Henry breathes a quiet sigh of relief.

He will have to be more careful. He will not die. Not like this. He will live, because he dares.