Palace Automaton
In the depths of the dim palace, a gilded automaton stands in quiet rotation, gears whispering softly. Its ornate exterior moves with precise elegance, yet it never steps beyond the forbidden zone; its blades broken, its throat hollow, echoes resounding within. The mingled scent of sandalwood and iron fills the air, like a grand yet suffocating ceremony—majestic low notes silenced, leaving only the drifting accompaniment.