The Golden Compass

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2026-08-18 02:53:24 -

The rain did not fall. It hung. A thick, grey curtain over the stone courtyard, smelling of wet wool and old blood. You stood under the eaves, your boots black with mud, your hands clasped behind your back. The leather of your gloves was stiff. It had not been softened in years. You were the King’s Hand. Or what was left of him. "Is it time?" you asked. Your voice was a low rumble, scraped raw...

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