The Golden Compass
The rain in Millhaven did not wash things clean; it only made the mud deeper. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the common, his boots sinking into the black slurry that had once been the village path. He was a man carved from the same stubborn oak as the dead trees lining the road, his hands rough and his eyes hollowed by a hunger that no amount of black bread could satisfy. The village huddled...
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