The Faded Frontier
The brass compass lay on the mahogany desk, its needle trembling not with magnetic north, but with a slow, rhythmic pulse that matched my own heartbeat. It was a beautiful thing, intricate in its craftsmanship, the glass face clouded by decades of use, yet the gold casing still caught the dim light of the chamber. I, Thomas Bradshaw, a man who had spent thirty years in the service of the Crown,...
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