Cold

He has never known cold on Kahje. Discomfort, yes, but never cold. Even the rain is warm.

The house he lives in has always been kept dry. He has plenty of blankets, and when that isn't enough, his mother curls up beside him and hums songs that make him feel warm from head to toe. She wipes the grass from his feet when he plays outside and the beads of water that collect on his frill when he splashes in the sink. Her palm on his forehead is hot when he is ill, but it's a gentle heat that permeates through the thick plates of his scales and trickles all the way through him.

When they're out in a crowd he follows her, and his keen eyes track the motion of her legs so he always knows just where to run to. When his own legs are tired, he nuzzles his face into her lap and she scoops him up and presses him against her chest.

He can hear her heart beat, then. It's a song, like the ones he falls asleep to, but it's different as well. It's a pulse; a rhythm that burns like a star.

Stars never stop burning. If they do, they aren't a star any more.

That's just how things are.

And so he is confused when he finds her with her body still and unmoving and speckled by red. He is confused when she does not respond. He is confused when his little hands grasp at her own, his fingers darting to and fro across the gentle planes of skin that thrummed so hotly mere hours ago.

He is confused, and he is scared, because he screams at her and she doesn't answer.

Cold.

Everything is cold.

Kolyat has never known cold til now, and as he curls up beside his mother on the floor, it trickles through every part of him until cold is all he feels.