Reaching the West Reaches quenches the mended blade, and brackish steam flares up around him, faster than he expected: brings with it towers and terraces, figures in the mist, screaming, minarets shattered in flames.

Stumble Jade lifts his welder’s mask to glare. “Control, control, you must learn control!”

“I saw a city in the clouds,” says Reaching the West Reaches slowly.

“It is the future you see.”

“They were in pain.” He rubs his head thoughtfully, the scars smoother than they were when he came here, tan blending their edges. “Will they die?”

“Always in motion,” says Stumble Jade, “the future.”