Ian was carefully lifted and carried into the Steam Chamber by several medical staff.
His White Sleep Fever was already in its late stages. Without treatment, he might not survive the night.
So the physician had him brought into the Steam Chamber with the first group.
Ian no longer had the strength even to open his eyes. He could only faintly hear the jumble of footsteps and feel himself being moved.
Am I already dead? Are they moving my corpse? he wondered.
Then something warm enveloped his cold, stiff body.
The air was thick with moisture. Warmth seeped like a tide into his limbs, which had long since lost all feeling.
Breathing grew a little easier, too.
"Hang in there! You'll be better soon!" someone shouted beside his ear.
In his hazy consciousness, Ian felt like someone who had sunk to the bottom of an icy lake and finally reached the surface.
He felt his blood begin to flow again, sensation slowly returning to his fingertips.
They ached and hurt, yet the feeling was so real.
With an effort, he opened his eyes a fraction.
Blurry steam and busy figures filled his vision.
A scalding tear slipped from the corner of his eye.
Ian could hardly believe that his body was actually recovering, or that anyone would spare no expense to save him.
In this world, refugees like them were worth nothing. They could be abandoned at any moment.
Yet now, someone had gone to such lengths to save them.
It must be Lord Louis!
Only he would save a worthless commoner like me.
As he slowly recovered, the temperature continued to rise.
The heat seared his skin, and even breathing felt like drawing flames into his lungs.
It was too hot. It hurt too much.
Yet he had never