The Golden Compass
The fog that settled over the valley of the Ashworths did not merely obscure the world; it devoured it, a thick, grey wool that pulled at the roots of the oaks and suffocated the breath of any creature foolish enough to linger in the open. It was the autumn of 1924, a season when the air tasted of iron and rot, and Elias Thorne, a man whose life had been defined by the quiet, repetitive rhythm...
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