The Golden Compass
The air tasted of copper and ozone. Sergeant Elias Thorne did not flinch. He did not blink. He stood in the center of the room, a circle of salt drawn in chalk around his boots, and waited for the thing to speak. The room was not a room. It was a throat. The walls were wet, pulsing with a slow, rhythmic thud that matched the beat of his own heart, which had stopped three minutes ago. Or perhaps...
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