Banshees at Prayer

The banshees stood silently, like statues of steel. Yet the fleetingly indifferent gazes beneath their visors, and the slight rhythm of their bodies with every breath, constantly reminded the priests of the Silent Temple just what kind of powerful beings stood before them.

Helena felt as though her thoughts were freezing over.

She stared blankly at the bowed heads of the praying banshees, standing there stupidly alongside the other priests as if she had fallen into an ice pit.

Her reason seemed to be gradually slipping away, but her battle-honed body instinctively began to react, streams of information flooding into her mind.

There were over a hundred of them, no fewer than the Buriers. Their movements were uniform, their discipline clearly exceptional. They could form complex battle formations, and their armor was as thick as door panels. The dull sound of it dragging across the floor alone showed that it was far more than mere decoration.

That armor had to weigh at least several hundred pounds. A mortal might not even be able to stand after putting it on, yet it seemed utterly light on these Banshees.

And with bodies that huge, they surely possessed strength to match—along with six hands capable of wielding weapons.

An image suddenly appeared in Helena's mind: the banshees standing in ranks upon the battlefield, silently drawing their long blades and charging forward.

Their towering bodies were like a wall—a wall of steel. A moving wall of steel crashing across the battlefield would tear through any battle line as easily as paper, leaving behind only a road of crushed flesh and blood.

Even if one somehow halted a banshee's charge, one would then have to face those cold, disdainful eyes beneath her visor. The long blades in her six arms would rain down like a