The Golden Compass
The brass button of his tunic caught the gaslight, a small, cold coin of authority. Elias Thorne held it between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the weight of it, the specific gravity of a rank he no longer felt worthy to wear. The ballroom of the 12th Infantry barracks was a cavern of heat and perfume, the air thick with the smell of roasted meats and the sharp, metallic tang of fear that...
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