Nine clones drew closer around the opened Descendant, crowns of blood turning slowly, and Noah studied the written line running through Jarl Skallagrim with the interest of a man who had just been handed a language older than every framework he had ever broken!
The plan assembled itself as he looked.
He could not read the script of Those Who Remain. Fine!
He did not need to read it. He needed to REPLACE it! Where the curse's counter-writing braided through the lineage-line, where the Argent Loom coiled white through the black, he would lay down his Blood Marks as anchors, and then, clause by careful clause, he would swap out the bound lengths of an ancient sentence with material of his own. With his Infinite Sanguine Mana. With his own Osmontian Tongue.
With his words!
