The Golden Compass
The rain smells of iron. You know the scent. It is the scent of blood. You press your face into the mud. The cold bites your skin. You are shivering. The shiver is not from the cold. It is from the fear. You are running. The mud sucks at your boots. Each step is a war. You are a scholar. You know this. You have the book. The book is heavy. It is wrapped in oilcloth. It is safe. You must reach...
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