The very air vibrated with power.
The Pope's resonance, dense, suffocating, and oppressive, filled every corner of the throne room like an invisible ocean.
The silent clerics who were robed in the purest white and stood along the walls of the room had their heads bowed low, trembling under the sheer weight of it.
The golden spires of the Pope's high-backed throne gleamed under the flickering light of the torches spaced at even intervals around the hall. He sat rigid, his gloved hands clenched around the armrests.
Just one look at him and it was easy to tell that he was just barely holding back his fury.
He glared at Father Atticus, who knelt right before his throne, sweat running down his brows despite the cold of the room.
The Pope spoke, his voice breaking the silence.
