The Golden Compass
The ink was blacker than the night outside, and it smelled of iron and dried blood. Elara sat at the heavy oak desk in the center of the Hall, the only light in the house coming from a single, sputtering tallow candle. The wind pressed against the stone walls of the keep, a constant, low moan that seemed to know her secrets. In her hand, she held a quill dipped in the vial. On the parchment...
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