Hot.
It was so hot.
The air hung heavy and thick, a stifling blanket pressing down on him. Sweat beaded on his forehead, tracing salty tracks down his cheeks.
His breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale scorching his lungs. He was a furnace, his skin prickling with heat that seemed to seep into his very bones.
"Hot..." he rasped, the word a desperate plea for relief.
He writhed on the bed, tossing his head from side to side, seeking solace in the nonexistent breeze. But instead of comfort, a voice sliced through the haze, sharp and cold as ice.
"Again? How many times has it been this month?"
"Father, Little Yu is born with a weak constitution. He will get stronger with time," another voice said in argument.
"That is what you tell me every time he is sick," the first person scoffed.
"It is because I feel the urge to constantly remind you, Imperial Father."
Ah.
Now he remembered.
