The realization struck Ioh like a punch to the chest: the spell that kept the globe sealed could not be broken at just any moment. Its power lay not only in words or magic, but in time itself — in the years of captivity pressing like unseen chains. Only when Dacus completed sixteen years of forced sleep would the spell weaken enough to be broken.
Ioh lifted his gaze, and the pale candle flame flickered in his eyes, reflecting a silent resolve, sharper than any blade.
— "A little longer… just a little longer… and maybe we'll have a chance…" — he whispered, his voice heavy with an unspoken vow.
In the stillness of the room, the globe pulsed faintly, like a tired heart waiting for a miracle. For the first time in many days, a true hope stirred in Ioh's soul: that perhaps it wasn't too late, that the answer lay not just in words, but also in the bitter patience of that ancient hour, written by fate itself.
With frozen fingers, Ioh leafed again through the small old book, its yellowed pages rustling like whispers of the past. Incantations, rituals, and strange symbols spread across the lines, and some letters, half-erased, seemed to hide the secret he sought.
But as he neared the end, his fingers touched a thick page, slightly different to the touch — a bridge between two worlds. His gaze stopped, drawn powerfully to a single sentence set right in the center of the page — long letters, carved with a certainty that seemed to pierce time itself. Though written in an ancient calligraphy, the letters seemed alive, unsettling, as if the hand that wrote them had done so not centuries ago, but only recently. And perhaps the most disturbing thing was that this writing didn't match the old trembling lines of the rest of the book: it seemed fresh, impatient to be read — a hidden message added by another hand:
"Since the oldest times, when creatures of the night were born, somewhere exists — the seal. A power born to defeat evil."
A spark of curiosity pierced his heart. He raised his eyebrows slightly, eager to know more, to uncover the meaning of those words. Slowly, he turned the page, waiting for an answer that could change everything. But instead of clarity, he found a strange text written in a language he could not read. Unknown signs, interwoven into symbols that seemed to conceal secrets as old as the world itself. With a shiver, he realized this book hid far more than he had thought — perhaps even the truth behind the marks burning on the bodies of the Grimm twins.
He remained still for a few moments, holding the book in his hands, while a question echoed in his mind, unsettling his soul: "Who whispered to Get about the seal?… And what price did he pay to learn it?"
That question weighed on him like a new burden, and the mystery only strengthened his resolve: to unravel not just the riddle of the globe, but also the ancient enigma of the seals and the children he kept close.
All this time, Nira watched in silence, hope hidden behind her tired gaze: perhaps, when Dacus would complete sixteen years, the curse would break. But the ones who seemed to believe most were the Grimm twins themselves. With small steps and big hearts, Luc and Nicolai crept near the globe, even when Ioh lost sight of them. Their tiny hands touched the cold glass, and the mist inside vibrated, like a mute answer.
No one knew what drove them — only that they did it, day after day, as if a secret voice told them they must. Ioh always found them there, near Dacus, and their stubborn innocence rekindled his own hope.
— "Maybe through them comes the breaking…" — he thought, his gaze heavy.
Then came that night, when Dacus had been asleep for sixteen years. The sky was covered by a sickly moon, and from the forest came the howls of animals, like a crown of dark sounds surrounding the manor. The air was heavy, the waiting — suffocating.
— "Nicolai… Luc… now!" — said Ioh, who recited the riddle meanwhile, his voice half command, half prayer.
With wide eyes, the twins pressed their hands against the globe. A strange hum passed through the glass, the globe pulsed, glowed faintly… then everything faded, and the room fell silent again. No miracle happened.
Luc began to cry, Nicolai followed, and in Nira's eyes gathered a despair too heavy to speak. She fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face.
— "Everything is lost…" — she whispered, barely audible. — "Nothing can be done… Dacus will remain trapped forever."
Ioh struck the wall with his fist, his gaze clouded with fury and helplessness.
— "No… there must be something else! Something we haven't seen…" — he said through gritted teeth, his voice hoarse, almost like a broken prayer.
— "I have read and reread every word, every sign…" — said Nira, her voice weak. — "There can't be anything else…"
— "I refuse to believe that!" — Ioh burst out, a stubborn light in his eyes.
He looked at the twins, trying to smile:
— "You did all you could… it's late now, go to sleep. Tomorrow we'll try again. We won't give up…"
He stroked their hair, took them by the hand and led them to their room. He stayed a while by them, watched over by the shadows of the chamber.
When he returned to the globe, he paused for a moment. He touched its cold surface, and in his chest he felt a bitter emptiness.
— "What more should I have done to free you?" — he whispered, like a man speaking to a shadow.
Then he closed his eyes, and in that heavy silence, a thought ignited in his mind:
"The verse about the last trial… maybe it had another meaning."
He lifted his gaze, his breath caught, and the moonlight trembled across his face. He knew he still hadn't understood everything. That the answer still lurked in unspoken words.
And for a moment, even in defeat, Ioh's eyes burned once more.
A meaning older than words themselves… and perhaps, older even than the Word.