True North

A circular brass pocket compass lay flat on the hall console, caught in the morning glare. I scaled the corner of the wooden table and planted both boots beside the casing. The release latch was stiff, but a firm press with my thumb popped the spring-loaded lid upright with a sharp snap. Beneath the beveled glass, a delicate black needle bobbed in its housing, trembling before swinging cleanly toward north. Curious about its sensitivity, I drew my dagger an inch from its sheath; the steel immediately tugged the needle three degrees off course. Discipline demands an uncompromised bearing. I clicked the blade back into leather, stepped back, and watched true north settle.