The first handhold had been carved so deep into the chain link that my fingers disappeared up to the second knuckle.
I paused there, one foot still on solid ground, staring at the groove. It was smooth and polished, the groove itself was a sign that the chains had probably existed for thousands of years and thousands of years of gripping the same spot, had caused the iron down like water on river stone. The edges had been sharp once, I could tell — tool marks still visible in the deepest part of the groove — but now they were rounded, softened by the passage of countless hands.
'How many people climbed this exact spot before me?'
Millions, probably. The thought was strangely comforting.
"Don't overthink it," Nisha called from above. She was already three body-lengths up, scaling the chain with the ease of someone who'd done this before. "The path is marked. Just follow the holds."
