The Golden Compass
The blade of the judge’s pen sliced through the parchment with a sound like a dry twig snapping. I watched the ink pool. It was dark. It was viscous. It smelled of iron and old blood. My hands were bound by ropes that cut into the wrists. The room was cold. The stone floor was cold. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax and fear. I was an exile. A foreigner in a land that had swallowed me...
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