The Golden Compass
The hammer fell with a rhythm that defied the chaos outside, a steady, wooden thud that echoed against the cold stone of the unfinished spire. Elias Thorne, forty years old and covered in the white dust of limestone, did not look down at the city of Varen burning below. He looked only at the golden plate he was fitting, his hands trembling not from fear, but from the sheer, desperate weight of...
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