'cause dirt on you is dirt on me, and we both know our hands ain't clean
Calan answers her solemn assessment with a grim nod, tightening both hands around the broom as he studies the steps they’ve already crossed. The absence of snapping jaws, swinging blades, or sudden holes opening beneath them doesn’t reassure him nearly as much as it should. In fact, the longer he considers it, the more suspicious it becomes. "I bet the traps only trap some of the time, too," he whispers, leaning closer so the builders of the lighthouse—or the gods listening through the walls—won’t overhear him solving their trick. "So you go over one and nothing happens, and then you think it’s safe." His gaze slides slowly back down the staircase, retracing every place they’ve put their hands and feet. "Then it gets you when you come back."
That would explain why their extensive testing hasn’t revealed anything. The trial isn’t poorly trapped; it’s patient. Calan’s expression darkens with admiration for whoever devised it, and he gives the nearest step another firm poke for good measure before easing one foot onto it. He keeps his weight poised over the lower stair, ready to fling himself backward should the stone so much as twitch, though the burning in his thighs makes the pose rather less heroic than he imagines.
The sudden commotion from around the curve sends him upright beside Fern, broom whipping around in both hands as he peers toward the sound. For one taut moment his shoulders climb nearly to his ears while he listens to the scrape, flutter, and increasingly irritated calls echoing through the stairwell. Then recognition settles across his face, and all that alarm drains out of him at once. "I bet that’s just Bird checking for traps outside," Calan says, lowering the broom from its defensive position. Another demanding cry follows, and he nods as though this confirms everything. "He probably found one."
That would explain why their extensive testing hasn’t revealed anything. The trial isn’t poorly trapped; it’s patient. Calan’s expression darkens with admiration for whoever devised it, and he gives the nearest step another firm poke for good measure before easing one foot onto it. He keeps his weight poised over the lower stair, ready to fling himself backward should the stone so much as twitch, though the burning in his thighs makes the pose rather less heroic than he imagines.
The sudden commotion from around the curve sends him upright beside Fern, broom whipping around in both hands as he peers toward the sound. For one taut moment his shoulders climb nearly to his ears while he listens to the scrape, flutter, and increasingly irritated calls echoing through the stairwell. Then recognition settles across his face, and all that alarm drains out of him at once. "I bet that’s just Bird checking for traps outside," Calan says, lowering the broom from its defensive position. Another demanding cry follows, and he nods as though this confirms everything. "He probably found one."
if it all goes wrong and we end up on the news, if you go down I'm goin' down too
