The Golden Compass
The snow did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended grey particulate that choked the air and erased the horizon. Elias Thorne walked with a rigid, mechanical precision, his boots crunching through the crust of the ice fields. He was thirty-four, a man whose face had been worn smooth by wind and the particular, hollow exhaustion of the hunted. Around his neck, suspended from a leather cord,...
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