All Chapters of THE ALTAR WE BURNED : Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

The soft light of morning filtered through the tall, arched windows of the restored cathedral. Once a place of shadowed secrets, the sanctuary now welcomed the dawn with open arms. The scent of lavender and sandalwood wafted through the halls, replacing the old incense that had long veiled its corruption. For the first time in decades, the sacred heart of the Church beat with unburdened rhythm.Michael stood at the high altar, eyes closed, as the first rays of sunlight washed over his face. His robes were simple—no longer the extravagant garb of a corrupted clergy, but plain cloth stitched by the very hands of those the Church had once oppressed. Around him, the congregation gathered quietly, some weeping, some clasping hands, all trembling with the weight of a new beginning.Beside him stood Isabella, regal yet humbled in her white gown. Her presence was a symbol of resilience, the miracle child once hidden from sight now a beacon of hope. Arthur, no longer the di

The dawn crept slowly over the horizon, casting golden fingers across the towers of the reconstructed cathedral. The morning light fell gently over the people gathered in the open courtyard, where the sacred stones of justice had recently been laid. The air was thick with anticipation, not of fear but of purpose. Rebuilding had begun, but the scars of tyranny remained vivid.Arthur stood beside Isabella, their fingers lightly entwined. He looked older now, not in age but in spirit. His eyes no longer held the boyish glint of defiance but the steady weight of duty. Isabella, radiant in a flowing robe of ivory and gold, bore herself with the quiet strength of someone who had endured the fire and emerged unburned.Michael approached from the eastern wing, robed now not in secrecy but in open authority. Since the exposure of the Elders and the Bishop, he had become something of a myth—both revered and feared. His every word carried the tone of ancient wisdom and unspea

The dawn broke with an unexpected serenity. After the storm of revelations and the collapse of the corrupt hierarchy, peace settled over the cathedral like soft snow on scorched ground. Isabella stood at the balcony of her new quarters, the rising sun warming her face. It was a freedom she had dreamed of for years—one that came not with fanfare, but with a quiet certainty.The sounds of the cathedral had changed. Where once there had been rigid chanting and the march of authority, now there were laughter and hymns sung freely. The people walked without fear, their eyes no longer cast down but lifted in hope. Children played in the gardens once kept under lock, and young priests shared food and prayers with the weary souls who had traveled to witness the rebuilding.Arthur stepped beside her, his shirt rumpled from sleep, his smile tender. "You're up early.""I couldn't sleep," Isabella replied softly. "It's strange, isn't it? After all that has happened, t

The rain began just as the first chant rose from the valley, a distant, melodic sound that crept up the hills and coiled around the cathedral ruins like a prayer long forgotten. Isabella stood on the high terrace, her cloak soaked, but her spirit unyielding. She watched the crowd gather below, their faces lit by torches and thunder. For the first time in centuries, the people had come not to worship in fear but to bear witness in unity.Michael approached from the rear corridor, his robes freshly pressed, though his eyes were hollowed by sleepless nights. He paused beside her."They gather because of you," he said softly."They gather because of truth," she corrected.He nodded, letting the silence settle between them.Down below, Arthur moved among the people, his sleeves rolled, assisting mothers, steadying old men, and exchanging nods with the once-skeptical youth who had fought him with rocks when he returned from exile. His laughter,

The morning sun filtered through the high arches of the restored cathedral, casting rays of gold and crimson upon the polished stone floors. The once-somber structure now thrummed with the pulse of a people reborn. Where silence and fear once held dominion, there was now soft murmuring of hopeful voices, songs of restoration, and footsteps echoing with purpose. Father Michael stood at the altar, his eyes closed, lips moving in silent prayer. His robes, once darkened by exile, now shimmered with white and gold threads, symbolizing redemption and rebirth. The scent of frankincense curled upward like gentle vines, weaving around the frescoes overhead—artworks that now depicted truth instead of tyranny. Behind him, Arthur and Isabella approached slowly. Isabella walked with her head high, though shadows of her imprisonment still haunted her eyes. Arthur’s arm brushed hers in a silent promise: they were no longer alone in this fight.