The Golden Compass
The first shard of the obsidian mirror strikes the air with a sound like a snapping bone, and you catch it between your teeth just as the second shatters against the ribcage of the man in the silver suit. You are standing in the middle of the Grand Atrium of the Pneumatic Exchange, a cathedral of brass and steam where the air tastes of ozone and rusted copper, and the floor is a mosaic of black...
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