All Chapters of THE ALTAR WE BURNED : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

The moon hung high above Ember Hollow like a silent sentinel, casting pale silver light over the desolate ruins that once housed faith and betrayal alike. The fires of war had dimmed for a breath, and in that rare quiet, a deeper terror stirred. One that wore not the face of armies, but of history long buried.Isabella stood at the edge of the ancient pool in the heart of the Hollow—once sacred, now corrupted. Her reflection shimmered in the rippling waters, no longer just her own but shadowed by something older. The water whispered in a language she didn’t know but understood all the same. Behind her, the shattered trees swayed without wind, as if listening.Arthur emerged from the woods, bloodied but unbroken. His armor bore the cracks of battle, and his eyes were rimmed with exhaustion. Yet, when they settled on her, there was only clarity."They’re regrouping," he said. "Catherine’s moving again. The Seers have pulled back. It’s not a retreat. It’s pre

The sun never rose that morning. The sky above Ember Hollow remained painted in hues of endless twilight—a sickly blend of purples and reds, as if heaven itself mourned the unraveling of fate. What should have been the first light of dawn was instead the flicker of torch flames dancing atop ruined watchtowers, their embers too feeble to pierce the gloom. Isabella stood at the edge of the ruined temple garden, her cloak torn and her body aching from battle and betrayal. Her hand trembled, not from fear but exhaustion. The air was still heavy with the scent of burned prayer scrolls and scorched lilies. Every breath she took was laced with ash, every heartbeat a defiant echo against the silence. Arthur leaned against the temple wall nearby, arms crossed over his chest, face grim and unreadable. His armor was stained with blood—some his own, most not. The lines around his eyes had deepened, shadows of the man he had been replaced by something

The silence before the storm was a breathless one. Ember Hollow lay blanketed in a strange stillness, its streets veiled in a thin mist that clung to the cobblestones like ghostly lace. The moon no longer hung in the sky—it had vanished behind a mass of shifting shadows, as though afraid to witness what would come. Winds carried whispers through the broken towers and alleyways, humming a melody ancient and mournful. A song was building. Not one sung by mortals, but by the restless dead. The Sorrowing Choir had awakened. --- In the crumbling cathedral that once held the Council of Light, the Elders stood in a sacred triangle. Elder Cathros stood at the apex, hands raised, while Catherine and Elder Kael knelt, each holding a shard of the Chosen’s remains—pieces of those who had once stood against the Hollow and died for it. Their bones shimmered faintly, soaked in centuries of reverence and

Night fell over Ember Hollow like a shroud of mourning. No stars shone above, only the pale shimmer of spirit-light that lingered from the remnants of battle. Though the Hollow had quieted, its silence was not one of peace—it was the hush that followed something ancient being unbound.Arthur's breathing was shallow, but steady. Isabella sat beside him, her back pressed against a scorched pillar, arms curled around her knees. The warmth of the fire still moved in her veins, but it felt heavier now—not wild or consuming, but aware. Purposeful. Watching.The Hollow pulsed with a living heartbeat, deep in its core, in rhythm with the breath of its chosen.She touched the edge of her robes, tattered and singed, feeling the pulse of the sigils still stitched into their lining. Some were fading. Others, glowing stronger than ever. The battle with Catherine had burned away much of what she thought she needed. What remained were the things she could not discard—tru

The Hollow no longer whispered in dread. It hummed. Not the mournful chords of the Choir, but something brighter, rawer, more alive. Like the crackle of a hearth long abandoned, newly lit. And at its center stood Isabella, wrapped not in flames but in resolve. Dawn broke above Ember Hollow for the first time in years. Isabella emerged from the Flameheart Chamber with Arthur leaning heavily against her. The once scorched path up the spire now bore the beginnings of green—moss threading between stones, tiny vines curling up fallen columns. Nature, long suppressed by fire and ash, was remembering how to breathe. She carried no sword. No staff. No sigil of authority. But those who looked upon her—survivors, scattered Chosen, broken Acolytes—felt the weight of something more permanent than power. Peace. From the wreckage, a people slowly gathered. They came down from hiding places, emerged from hidden alcoves bene