The Golden Compass

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2026-08-25 08:06:55 -

Act I Struan MacIntyre, twelve years old, stood in the mud of the ancestral hall, clutching a shattered clay bowl that had cost more than my father’s annual wage. The smell of wet stone and old peat hung heavy in the air, thick enough to choke on, while Lord Alistair, my uncle, sneered at the broken shards scattered across the flagstones. He did not look at the bowl; he looked at me, his gaze...

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