The Golden Compass
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the slate roof of the keep, a rhythmic, dull thud that matched the pounding in Torin’s skull. He sat in the armory, the air thick with the smell of wet wool and old iron. Before him lay the greatsword. It was not a weapon of glory. It was a tool of labor, heavy and blunt, designed for breaking bone rather than cutting flesh. The blade...
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