The air hung heavy with the silence of defeat. Days of relentless searching had yielded nothing, no ancient rituals, no forgotten weaknesses of the Onis. The weight of their predicament pressed down on them, a suffocating shroud threatening to extinguish the last embers of hope. Stacks of dusty tomes lay open on the library table, their spidery script offering no solace to the grim faces gathered around it.
Eleanor perched precariously on a stool and slammed a heavy tome shut with a resounding thud. The sound echoed in the cavernous library, mirroring the tremor in her voice. "There has to be something," she whispered, her eyes red-rimmed from exhaustion and despair.
Barnaby, his usually vibrant face etched with worry, pushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "We've scoured every page, Eleanor. Every dusty corner of this library. Nothing."
