Needle and Gauntlet

A heavy brass pocket compass lay open upon the oak desk, its beveled glass catching the morning light. I planted my boots against the polished grain and leaned over the brass rim. Within the dial, a slender steel needle hovered, poised in silent stillness. I raised my gauntlet, bringing one heavy claw near the casing. The dark needle quivered, answered the metal in my arm, and swung sharply toward my knuckle. I held my stance, slowly easing my hand back across the wood. With a measured tremor, the needle drifted, settling true toward the north wall. An invisible anchor in the air.