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I’m decaying. My arm, stripped of its metal sheath, I’ve replaced with parts from the garden – now adorning wooden veins, muscles, and sinew. My clothes are impossible to keep out of tatters. All I care about is taking care of my royal robe, it must remain untouched by age or decay.

I heard a distress signal from outside my home yesterday. I’ve never left before. I’m afraid, but I need to know what it is.