They would make it about time, Atlas had said, and the word was still sitting in Noah's head when he tapped his left forearm against the edge of the starlight slab.
A dull thud went through the stone. No vibration ran up the bone. The skin did not redden. Under the pale surface the gold script sat there like iron driven into granite, steady and rooted, as if the arm belonged to a statue instead of a living man.
Then the water carried something through the stone. A thin scrape, faint, like needles dragged across glass, coming down from the upper shelf of the reef.
The band on his middle finger warmed. Atlas came up over his staff with a scowl.
Stop admiring your arm,| he said, glancing at the ceiling. |We have company coming down the shelf. A pack of Descendants just entered the Tide.|
Noah did not move. "Did they track the ring?"
