The Golden Compass
The silence in the Hall of Whispers was not empty; it was heavy, a physical weight that pressed against the eardrums and settled in the marrow of the bones. Margaret Holloway stood at the base of the spiraling dais, her hands trembling not from fear, but from the sheer, crushing magnitude of the air around her. She was a clerk, a woman of ink-stained fingers and quiet habits, yet here she...
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