The Golden Compass
The strap of the rifle dug into my shoulder, a familiar bruise forming under the wool of my tunic as I hauled Lord Vane through the sucking mud of the Lowlands. The fog was thick, a wet gray blanket that smelled of rot and iron, and every step we took seemed to pull at the earth itself, as if the ground were trying to hold us down. I counted the paces in my head, a habit born of twenty years of...
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