The Golden Compass
The station clock in the city of Aethelgard did not tick so much as it exhaled, a slow and rhythmic sigh of steam that filled the platform with a fog so thick it seemed to possess a physical weight, pressing against the coats of the waiting passengers and settling into the pores of the skin like a fine, invisible dust. Thomas Ashworth stood with his back to the departing train, his hands buried...
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