The Golden Compass
The dream is not a dream but a recollection of a boundary you have walked so many times that the grass has worn into a silver thread, a path of pure exhaustion. You are standing in the mud of the valley, the air thick with the smell of wet iron and old blood, and you are holding the spear, the long, heavy shaft of ash wood that is the only thing between you and the void. The village of Oakhaven...
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