The air in the chamber was a heavy, suffocating blanket. Wizlen stood before the council, all eyes, hard, unforgiving eyes, fixed on him. A bead of sweat traced a cold line down the side of his head. He swallowed, the sound loud in the silence.
"Captured, your Holiness?" Wizlen croaked.
"Your report states the prototype sun cannon managed to wound and displace several of the invaders. It prevented them from fleeing with the others," the Pope said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed to slits. "Are you saying you failed to capture them?"
Wizlen shook his head, but his words came out as a desperate scramble. "Your Holiness, we weren't in a position to pursue. The city was a mess, our forces in disarray. I thought it better to secure the city first. Besides, they were badly wounded. They couldn't have gotten far." He trailed off, the last words a weak mumble.
"You allowed the Oracle to slip away," the Pope said flatly.
