He heard the constant rattling of the Loom, spinning towards eternity, despite the conflagration that enveloped it. But the noise of the Loom and the roaring rush of the fire were both drowned out by the chirring in the air. The clicking whispers. The sound of a trillion invisible insects stridulating in the back of his mind.

He could bear the heat no longer. He was being burned away. The door to the dark room was open, and hard sunlight shafted in from outside. Despite its glare, the light looked cool compared to the flames that lit him from head to toe.

He got up to reach for it. He pulled his burning body from the rough cot to claw at the light.

‘Stay still,’ the robed man said gently.

‘I burn…’ he gasped.

‘It is the Torment,’ the man told him. ‘I’m sorry, this is what it does. We have tried many things to ease the pain. Stasis fields. Ice baths. Opiates. Induced coma. Other victims have told me that it burns like hell’s fury even in their dreams.’

‘Is this a dream?’ he asked. His voice was small, without substance, like burning paper lifting into the air as it crisped away.

‘I’m sorry, no,’ said the robed man. ‘Lie back. You are too weak.’

‘I will get up,’ he insisted. He hauled himself up. The robed man reached to steady him. Why aren’t you burning, he thought. I am on fire, you touch me, your hands are on me. Why aren’t you burning too?

He shuffled to the open door. The robed man supported him.

‘I don’t know your name,’ the robed man said. ‘You were brought to us in…. in this condition. You carried no identity. These are the first words you have spoken.’

‘I… My name… is Gregor. Gregor Eisenhorn.’

‘I will do all I can to help you, Gregor Eisenhorn,’ the robed man said softly.

They stepped out into the light. The air was humid. He could see the deep blue sky above. He could smell the sea. Beyond the old stone walls of the garden, lush green vegetation rose, the skirts of a rainforest that blanketed the sheer flanks of the volcanic flue that stood in the distance, a ghost in the heat-haze.

The chirring of the insects was louder. Uncountable insects chirping in the jungle thickets beyond the ancient walls.

‘Where is this?’ Eisenhorn asked, squinting in the bright sunlight. ‘Is this some other part of Keshtre?’

‘I don’t know where that is,’ said the robed man. His robes were pure white. His skin was very dark. ‘I haven’t heard of it. Is it where you were?’

‘Then… have I folded again?’ Eisenhorn asked. ‘Is this another extimate overlap?’