He screamed. Ran in a tiny circle. Then, trembling whisker by whisker, he marched past the locusts, past the decaying god, and snatched the slab from the yard. He dragged it toward the road, nails squeaking on stone, while Ramses watched with eyes older than Egypt.
Then the locusts came. Not buzzing— whispering . courage the cowardly dog ramses
“Return the slab,” they hummed, low and dry as a throatful of sand. He screamed
Courage’s teeth chattered, but his legs wouldn't run. His eyes climbed the towering figure that now loomed behind the stone: Ramses, king of a dynasty of dread, his gilded beard cracked, his painted eyes weeping black resin. He didn't move so much as unfold —joints creaking like a sarcophagus lid. He dragged it toward the road, nails squeaking
Because courage isn't the absence of fear. It’s being terrified of a two-ton undead pharaoh and still returning the slab.