“We know what they are,” she said. Arthur stood. “Tell me.” “They’re eggs,” she said plainly. “But not fresh. They’re fossilized. Some are tens of thousands of years old—preserved under immense pressure in sediment layers miles beneath the ocean floor.”
His brow furrowed. “So they’re… dead?” “Dormant,” she corrected. “Or, more accurately, they were in a kind of stasis. Frozen in time.” “The tremors from last week weren’t just felt here. They disturbed the depths of the ocean.”