“You want me to what?”
“Beat me to the top of the mountain,” Shanka said.
Rastaban craned his neck, peered up through the flurries of snow. The peak of the mountain was beyond his view, lancing high into the winter-white sky.
“What did you call this again?”
“The rooftop of the world,” Shanka said. “The locals call her Sagarmatha, goddess of the sky.” She wore only a simple shift and seemed unconcerned with the frigid air.
“So I have to climb this?”
Shanka started forward. “Faster than me.”
“You’ve been doing this longer.”
“You have time to catch up.”
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