The Frozen Bearing

I halted before a circular brass pocket compass resting on the frosted porch bench. A thin crust of rime had sealed across the glass face, obscuring the cardinal markings. I grounded my spear butt firmly into the timber seam to establish my stance. With deliberate pressure, I rested my thumb against the cold brass rim until the frost softened into clear beads. A single sweep of my gauntlet edge cleared the glass. Inside the chamber, the dark steel needle shuddered once, then settled into unwavering alignment toward the northern ridge. The bearing is set.