The Golden Compass
The light in the archive was the color of old tea, a murky amber that seemed to settle in the cracks of the floorboards and cling to the dust motes dancing in the stagnant air. Elara stood before the glass case, her hands resting on the velvet cloth, feeling the familiar, cold weight of the brass instrument within. She had been an archivist for five years, a tenure built on the quiet...
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