The child looked at the field.
Or looked toward it — the directed gaze had fully developed at four months and was now precise, the temporal awareness giving the gaze a specific quality that was visible to anyone who knew to look.
Looking at the markers.
Not reading them — couldn't read yet, wouldn't for years. But reading the temporal field they sat in. The accumulated density.
'Tell me what you find,' Satou thought.
Not to the child. To himself. To the question.
'What does it feel like to read this with temporal awareness rather than just vision?'
He looked at the five hundred sixty markers.
He thought about Malakor. The awareness without grounding becomes unmoored. The grounding gives it anchor.
He thought about the ordinary things.
The morning routine. The folio. The Thursday meal. Kelvin's supply protocols. The carved Fenryn figure in his pocket.
