Among the darkest entries of the old bestiaries lies the banshee, a wraithlike herald whose presence stains the air crimson long before she is seen. Her flowers are said to bloom where grief has ripened, their deep hues like beads of blood scattered in warning. Those who claim to have glimpsed her speak not of screams, but of a trembling in the chest, a chill in the marrow—she is no spirit of malice, only the echo of something once loved, now gone.
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