One hour in, Ian's breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving like a bellows. Sweat soaked through his shirt, and his legs felt like they'd been filled with molten lead. He forced himself onward, muscles screaming in protest with every movement. The pain in his mind had evolved beyond simple pressure—it was an unrelenting storm now, bombarding him with flashes of memories he'd tried to bury, fears he'd never spoken aloud, doubts that whispered poison in his ear.
As he climbed up, the visions became more vivid, more real than the stone beneath his feet. He began to see his mother's tear-streaked face as she turned away, her shoulders shaking with sobs she tried to muffle. His father's hands trembling as he counted silver coins, weighing them against the worth of his only son.
And along with that came a voice whispering inside his head, cruel and persistent.
They sold you like cattle. You were worth twenty pieces of silver. Twenty. That's all your life meant to them.
