warnings: canon-typical violence, blood and aftermath imagery, religious themes and crisis of faith, mentions of off-screen child harm (non-graphic, discussed), corrupt justice system themes, emotional break down/grief, temptation by infernal power, implied trauma responses/dissociation
word count: 958
Reader is called “Silver” by her order; no given name used
series masterlist | next chapter
❝ He stayed kneeling as the last divine sigil sputtered… and died. ❞
Summary: Justice was supposed to feel pure.
When a corrupt noble escapes conviction and his god remains silent, Paladin Matt Murdock is left kneeling in the blood of the innocent, begging for divine intervention that never comes.
Tyr doesn’t answer.
Zariel does.
At the altar, Matt’s oath begins to crack. He doesn’t say yes.
But he doesn’t say no.
༺ ⚖️ ༻
Justice was supposed to feel pure.
But the floor of the temple is drenched in blood. It runs in slow rivulets down the altar steps, pooling in the grooves of the marble, and Matt's gauntlets are dyed in it. Not his. Not innocent. But not righteous, either.
He kneels before the statue of Tyr—eyes shut, jaw clenched. He can feel the weight of it, etched in stone above him: unblinking, unyielding.
"They cried for help," Matt murmurs. "And you did nothing."
The silence answers back. No warmth. No divine spark. Not even the ache of withheld power—just nothing.
He breathes in the copper-salt stink of blood. Beneath that: sulfur. Faint. Distant. Watching.
"What good is law if it shields monsters?"
"What good is a god who turns away from justice?"
He waits.
Still...nothing.
And then, from somewhere far beyond the temple walls, he hears it.
A whisper.
A heat curling at the edge of his mind like smoke.
"You understand the truth now, don't you?"
His fingers curl tighter around the hilt of his blade.
"If they will not grant you justice…"
"I will."
═════ ⚖️ ═════
Hours earlier…
The Hall of Judgment is cold beneath his feet—perfect marble veined with silver, glowing faintly with divine sigils that flicker under the pressure of broken truth.
Matt stands in the paladin's circle, fists clenched at his sides, armor still marked with soot and blood from the raid. His voice has already been heard. His evidence was submitted. His soul poured bare.
And still, the tribunal does nothing.
The noble stands in the center ring, unbound. Untouched. His robes are pristine.
His smirk? Worse.
"The Council has reached its decision," the arbiter says from on high, voice reverberating through the chamber. "There is no proof of sanctioned blood magic. No living witnesses remain. The charges cannot be upheld."
Matt doesn't flinch. Doesn't breathe. But his jaw tightens.
His hand drifts to the hilt of his sword.
And silently, beneath his breath:
"Tyr…please. Let this be righteous. Let this be wrong. Give me something."
The statue looms behind the arbiter—blindfolded, impartial, sword-sheathed. Tyr's image doesn't move. Doesn't breathe.
Matt waits.
Nothing.
"You cannot be serious," he says. "I—"
"You presented your truth, Ser Murdock," the arbiter cuts in. "But the law does not bend for passion."
"He sacrificed them." Matt's voice sharpens like a blade. "Children. He sold their souls for power. I saw the remnants myself… runes drawn in blood. And you're letting him—"
"The divine does not act on rage." The arbiter's eyes narrow. "You speak like one who has forgotten his place."
Matt's breath catches. And inside him, something folds in half.
The noble turns slowly to face him. Smiles.
"You tried hard, didn't you?" he murmurs. "Dug through ash. Followed the stench. All for a few broken scraps of parchment and a basement full of bones."
Matt says nothing.
The noble leans closer, voice like a knife:
"Next time, paladin… be sure to leave fewer survivors. That's where you failed."
A long breath escapes through Matt's nose. His hand curls tighter around his sword's hilt.
On the floor between them, one of the divine runes flickers… and dies.
No one notices but him.
And not a single god stops it.
He doesn't draw the blade.
Not yet.
═════ ⚖️ ═════
Still in the temple of Tyr, kneeling at the darkened altar, Matt smells the stinging bite of sulfur grow stronger. It curls in the air like smoke beneath the incense, wrong. Unholy. Familiar.
Then:
A whisper.
Closer this time. Sharper. It slithers into his thoughts like it was always there.
"They all deserved better…and he could have been stopped…their deaths prevented…"
He flinches. Just slightly.
Silence.
Then—footsteps.
Not echoing. Not real. But he hears them anyway, from the base of the temple steps behind him. The voice takes on shape. Weight. Almost kind.
"Would you like to know how?...I can show you…"
A shiver cuts through him. Cold and hot at once. Like fire laced with snow.
And still, Matt doesn't rise. Doesn't turn.
He stays kneeling.
Because against his better judgment…
He wants to hear more.
Matt's breath catches. His knuckles are white on the altar.
"Say yes," the voice urges again. "And you'll never fail them again."
He shakes his head once, sharply.
"No," he rasps. "This isn't justice."
"It's what you wanted," Zariel says. "Not law. Not mercy. Power."
The silence in the temple rings louder than her voice.
Matt lowers his head.
"I wanted to save them," he whispers. "I tried."
Another pause. Longer.
"And now I'm offering you a way to make sure it never happens again."
He doesn't answer.
But he doesn't say no.
The fire flickers.
The sigils dim.
The first crack forms in the altar stone.
She waits.
Matt stays kneeling, head bowed, as if in prayer.
But he isn't praying anymore.
He's listening.
"You were made to bring justice," Zariel says, voice like coals raked across silk. "But they leashed you. Silenced you. Used you."
"I won't."
He doesn't speak.
He doesn't move.
But he stays.
And that's enough.
Behind him, the shadows near the temple steps twist...stretching into a long, elegant silhouette. Armor of scorched gold. Eyes like twin suns at dusk.
Zariel watches him with something like pity. Or perhaps patience.
At the far end of the chamber, something begins to form from the dark:
A sword… not holy, but forged from the memory of it.
Heavy. Ancient. Bound in runes of betrayal.
It hums with hunger.
Matt can feel it.
The weight in the air. The taste of iron on his tongue. The trace of warmth under his skin where his oath once lived.
He stays kneeling until the temple goes silent again.
Until the last divine sigil sputters…and dies.
༺ ⚖️ ༻
📖 Available on ao3 too: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66458593
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pairing: matt murdock x afab reader
setting: dungeons & dragons fantasy au
rating: mature
warnings: canon-typical violence, religious themes, grief, betrayal, blood mention, divine silence, corrupted justice, moral conflict, slow descent into darkness
A/N: This fic is intended to be Reader Insert. "Silver" is a name given to the reader character by her order, not a given name. The only descriptors used are she/her pronouns and that she has pale, silverish, moonlight hair—a common trait among followers of Selûne in this setting. Please feel free to self-insert as much or as little as you'd like. 🕊️
༺ ⚖️ ༻
Summary: Once, Matt Murdock served justice.
As a paladin of Tyr, he lived by the law—until it failed the innocent one time too many.
In the silence of unanswered prayers, he fell… and something darker answered.
Now bound to a hellforged blade and branded by the archdevil Zariel,
he carves a path through corruption with fire and fury—no longer a servant of order,
but a weapon of judgment.
Silver, a moon elf paladin of Selûne, is sent to stop him.
Her order, the Waning Light, guides the lost home—not to punish,
but to redeem.
And in Matt, she sees the flicker of a light not yet extinguished.
When she binds him in chains of moonlight, their journey should end.
Instead—it begins.
warnings: hurt/comfort, emotional repression, canon-typical angst and trauma, minor animal injury (softly handled, ends well), soft!matt murdock moments he absolutely does not want to be having™
word count: 1.2k
Reader is called “Silver” by her order and others around her; no given name used
series masterlist | next chapter
❝How is he supposed to hate her? How is he supposed to be her enemy? How is he supposed to deserve anything kind from her at all?❞
Summary: The day begins in silence—one Matt still refuses to break. But Silver doesn’t stop trying. As they travel through the forest, her softness seeps into the stillness between them.
And when a wounded bunny stumbles into their camp, Silver doesn’t hesitate to kneel for it, cradle it, heal it. Matt listens to the way her voice gentles, the way her hands soothe.
And for the first time, he begins to wonder:
How can someone like him deserve to be near someone like her?
The next morning, Silver wakes to find Matt still asleep. Sometime during the night, he must’ve finally drifted off.
His breathing is even now, and his shoulders are no longer drawn tight with tension.
He seems... peaceful for now.
She moves quietly around the camp, careful not to disturb him. She eats a few pieces of dried fruit from her rations and takes a measured sip from her waterskin, settling onto a nearby log and letting the quiet morning settle into her bones.
Eventually, she hears the soft shift of cloth and armor, the faint change in his breathing as he wakes.
She waits, patient, until she can feel his attention settle on her. Not the intense, defensive stillness from before—just quiet awareness.
“Good mornin’,” she offers gently.
He doesn’t answer. But his presence remains steady, like last night—silent, restrained.
She reaches into her pack again. “You want something to eat? I’ve got jerky. Or fruit. Not much, but it’s enough.”
Still no answer.
“Water, then?” she offers, her tone mild but with a small smile. “Can’t walk far without some.”
No movement. Just the faint rustle of wind through leaves.
She sighs softly, not in frustration, but in quiet understanding. She finishes her tasks and moves closer to him, gently helping him stand with the chains still draped across Matt’s frame. He doesn’t resist. Doesn’t help, either. But he stands.
They travel in a shared silence as the path ahead winds through quiet woods dappled with filtered light and occasional patches of mist. Silver doesn’t speak for a while. She leads them forward with calm, measured steps. The soft rhythm of their boots, the rustle of their supplies, and the occasional jingle of the chain are the only sounds for a long while.
Matt follows. Silent. Watchful. The air between them is thick with things unsaid, but for now, that’s enough.
After a while, she tries speaking again, small things. Nothing heavy.
“You don’t seem like a breakfast person,” she murmurs once, half to him, half to herself.
They continue, and then she adds softly:
“If we keep heading west, I think there’s a stream ahead. Might be nice to rest near water this time.”
Still nothing.
He follows, though. Step by step. A dark presence beside her, silent as a shadow.
And once, just once, when she mutters under her breath—something about how even Hells-touched knights should drink water, or they’ll shrivel up like raisins—Matt has to turn slightly away. His lips twitch. He doesn’t laugh. But it’s close.
She doesn’t notice. Too focused on moving forward.
They stop to rest beneath the drooping branches of an old willow. The sun is beginning to dip, and both of them are worn from the hours of walking.
Silver sets her pack down. She doesn’t speak at first. Just sits and breathes.
Matt finally lowers himself to the ground with a quiet grunt, the exertion catching up to him. Sweat clings to his brow, and his posture is slack with exhaustion.
Silver doesn’t hesitate. She reaches into her bag and pulls out the waterskin, holding it in his direction.
“You don’t have to say anything,” she says gently. “But you do need to stay hydrated.”
This time, he hesitates.
Then, he reaches out and takes it.
Their fingers don’t touch. But it’s close.
He drinks deeply, nearly draining it. Luckily, their next stop will be near the stream she mentioned earlier.
When he hands the waterskin back, she silently offers a strip of jerky next. He accepts that, too.
Still no words.
But it’s something.
She notices the sky shifting with evening and stands, pulling her pack on. She helps him rise, and they continue west.
Aside from the forest sounds and their movements, it’s quiet again.
Until Matt surprises her by asking quietly, “Where are we traveling to? I mean... beyond just setting up camp tonight.”
Silver pauses mid-step. His voice isn’t harsh or bitter. Just tired. Honest.
She turns slightly toward him. “We’ll make camp by the stream. It shouldn’t be far now. After that... we’re heading somewhere special to me.”
Matt nods faintly—almost imperceptibly—but she feels the shift in him. Something starting to thaw.
They finish the journey in silence. But it’s a different silence now. Not cold. Not unyielding. Just shared.
By the time they reach the stream, the moon is rising, a soft sliver in the sky.
She motions toward a spot where the grass is soft, and the stones aren’t too jagged.
“Here,” she says gently. “You can sit. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Matt doesn’t argue.
Once the fire is lit low and warm, that’s when they hear it—rustling in the brush.
Silver looks up sharply, her instincts alert. She reaches for her staff, then stops.
A small, trembling creature emerges from the undergrowth. Barely larger than her hands.
A bunny.
Its fur is mottled gray beneath layers of dirt and dried blood. It limps forward, one hind leg dragging behind, its thin frame swaying with each step.
Silver gasps softly.
She rises, slow and careful. She doesn’t reach for any spells or potions; she just walks forward like she’s done this before.
She kneels.
“Oh, sweet stars,” she breathes. “You poor thing…”
Matt remains seated, listening to every detail—the shift of her footsteps, the soft flutter of the creature’s movement, the hush in her voice.
She extends her hands from where she’s kneeling.
“It’s alright,” she whispers. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
The bunny hesitates. But it doesn’t flee. Something in it recognizes the safety she offers.
It limps toward her.
And then, trembling, it curls up against her boots.
She gathers it gently in her hands.
Cradles it like something sacred.
Like something helpless and holy.
Silver’s touch glows faintly, light that doesn’t smite but soothes.
She murmurs something soft in Elvish, brushing her fingers over its leg. Warm, silvery radiance hums beneath her touch.
Matt hears the sound of the bunny’s bone moving slightly back into place and the way it settles with a tiny sigh. He hears the peace in it.
And he can feel something inside him fracture just a little more.
He shouldn’t feel this.
Not awe. Not grief. Definitely not longing.
But watching, no, sensing, her kneeling in the dirt for a sick and nearly dying rabbit?
How is he supposed to hate her?
How is he supposed to be her enemy?
How is he supposed to deserve anything kind from her at all?
He can’t help the way any of these feelings bubble up in his chest.
Not when he hears her gently feed the bunny some food from her rations and help it drink from the waterskin.
Not when she gently places the bunny down by her bedroll.
And not when she stays quiet, but continues to whisper soft, soothing things to the creature.
She eventually finishes her camp tasks, both the bunny and Matt having quietly and thoroughly observed her as she moved around so delicately.
She doesn’t try to talk to him anymore that night, but as she curls up to sleep, blanketless, the bunny snuggles close—she offers one last quiet, “Goodnight, Matthew.”
He doesn’t respond.
But he listens.
And when she falls asleep, he finds himself turning toward her once more.
And for just a moment…
Matt dares to imagine what it would be like...
to be held the way she holds that fragile creature.
✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 🐇 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
📖 Available on ao3 too: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66458593
warnings: canon-typical violence, emotional breakdown, past character death (noble), references to past violence (non-graphic), themes of guilt and grief, near weaponized attack (Ashen Oath lashes out), comfort after panic/rage, mentions of religious judgment and fear of punishment, soft physical affection (hug, forehead touch), implied mutual feelings/unresolved tension, bunny named Sage™ survives and thrives
word count: 1.5k
note: reader is called "silver" by her order and others around her; no given name used
series masterlist | next chapter
❝I want to hate you for it. It feels like the logical reaction.❞
Summary: Matt learns more of the truth. About the noble. About Silver. About everything she tried to stop.
His fury boils over, but when the fire fades… it’s not hate that remains. It’s something rawer. Softer.
Something he doesn’t understand yet, only that he doesn’t want to let go.
They didn't speak much after the stream.
The water had been quiet, calming. Silver offered him peace, and for once, Matt accepted it without suspicion.
As the night descends over the forest like a solemn prayer, a palpable tension replaces the earlier tranquility.
Their new shelter is a small, stone hollow tucked behind a cluster of tall trees. The cave mouth is mossy and narrow, just big enough for two people, a fire, and one small, sleeping guest curled beside Silver's bedroll, much like most of the world.
But not Matt or Silver.
He sits with his back against the wall, his elbows on his knees, and his hands still bound by the remains of the chain. They're looser now, less prison and more symbol. His armor smells faintly of campfire smoke and stream water. His face is turned slightly toward Silver, though his expression reveals nothing, a mask of his inner turmoil.
Silver is cross-legged by the fire, gently grinding dried herbs for more potions with the edge of a stone. She hums quietly, tuneless. Not for anyone else, just for herself.
Matt hears the rhythm of her breath. The soft flick of each movement. The rustle of her cloak as she shifts.
And he knows.
Now.
It's going to break him if he doesn't ask.
His voice is low and hoarse when it finally cuts through the quiet.
"You tried to stop me, didn't you?" Matt's voice is a mix of accusation and almost desperation.
Silver looks up slowly, hands stilling over the small bowl in her lap. The firelight paints soft gold over her pale elven chain armor and catches the curve of her brows as they knit together.
She doesn't answer at first.
Then...
"…Yes."
A quiet beat. Then Silver adds, voice softer, "And when I found him dead in his home, I tried to save him. But my spells weren't enough."
Everything stills.
She senses it, not with her ears, but with her heart. The way his breath catches. How something behind his silence shatters.
And then, like a dam bursting, the Hells break loose.
Matt rises like a storm, tearing himself off the ground. The red behind his eyes flares hotter, sharper. More fiery.
The holy sigils etched into the chains sputter out like dying stars.
And the chains fall.
"YOU TRIED TO SAVE HIM?" he roars, his voice cracking like a war drum against stone.
Ashen Oath ignites in his grasp without him even reaching for it, flame racing up the blade like it's been waiting.
Silver gasps, and so does Matt... barely a heartbeat behind her.
His hands weren't supposed to move like that.
The blade wasn't supposed to rise.
But it does.
And then it lunges.
Ashen Oath rears toward her like a beast on a leash, hatred pulsing down the steel.
His fury fuels it.
Matt snarls, furious now, but not at her.
He throws the sword aside hard. It crashes against the far wall with a hiss and a crack.
And in the same breath, he surges forward, grabs her by the shoulders, and drives her back.
Her back collides with the cave wall with a rough jolt. Her breath catches. But she isn't hurt; her armor absorbs the blow. She's just… stunned by the impact. The air just almost knocked from her lungs.
Matt is kneeling in front of her, but his presence still towers, trembling. His hands shake with a vulnerability he's struggling to hide.
Silver lifts her hands, not to defend but to steady him.
"Matt… breathe..."
"I didn't mean—" he choked. "I didn't mean for it to—"
"I believe you," she whispers. "You looked just as surprised as I was."
His jaw locks. His breath comes in ragged bursts.
She can tell he's thinking and overthinking everything.
"I told you," she says gently, "the High Seer said he needed to be stopped. That justice would come for him, just not by our hands. I tried to bring him back… so he could face it. So no one else would have to die."
Matt shudders.
Something shifts behind Matt's eyes.
A memory. Blistering. Bright.
Years ago, he could no longer remember the woman's name. But he remembers the dark alley. The storms. The man who cornered her.
He remembers stepping in, not with fire, not with fury... but restraint.
He remembers dragging the attacker into the light. Leaving him tied to a lamppost, bloodied but breathing, the authorities arriving just as dawn broke.
He remembers the trial.
The survivor's testimony.
The sentence passed down by a court, not a sword.
He'd felt pride. Not the burning kind. The quiet, hard-earned kind.
Justice had come. Not through him. But because of him.
That version of himself… he hasn't seen him in a long time.
"You…" he swallows hard. "You did everything right. You've always done everything right."
Her brows furrow. "Matt—"
If only he knew she hadn't. Not really.
She's done everything wrong since the start. And she knows it. Feels it.
"Even after what he did. You still… tried."
"I thought it was what Selûne would've wanted so that he couldn't escape his punishment."
He leans in without meaning to, just barely brushing his forehead to hers. His voice is hoarse.
"I want to hate you for it. It feels like the logical reaction."
Her breath catches.
"…Why don't you?" she asks.
He doesn't answer.
Matt's breath falters. So does hers.
He can hear it.
The steady rhythm of her heart stutters beneath her armor.
He can smell the faint, warm scent of moonflower still clinging to her cloak.
Her lips part, just slightly, and he hears the softest hitch in her breath, like a prayer trapped between hesitation and hope.
His own pulse hammers like a drum against his ribs.
The weight of his gaze drops to her mouth.
He almost kisses her.
The space between them goes still and breathless. The weight of it, of what could be... lingers.
He doesn't know what he wants. Not yet. His actions puzzle even himself.
But he wants something.
Instead of a kiss, Matt moves even closer to her. A rough, desperate embrace. His arms lock around her like he's trying to hold himself together with the shape of her kindness.
And she lets him.
She doesn't fight it.
Not this time.
Her arms come around him slowly, instinctively. She presses her cheek against his shoulder, like that might be enough to keep the weight of the world off his back.
And gods…
Gods, she doesn't know how to let him go either.
She's not even sure what will happen when they reach her Order... if they'll see Matt the way she does, if the Seer will still say "intervene" or simply "end this."
He's clinging to her like mercy might vanish if he lets go.
But she's holding on just as tightly.
And the thought of walking him to a fate she disagrees with...
It's already starting to break her.
His breath is uneven against her shoulder.
And then his voice comes like a prayer dragged through broken glass.
"Don't ever try to make me good again... Please..."
But gods, the way he clings to her says something else entirely.
Tighter than anything, like mercy, might vanish if he lets go.
So, Silver stays.
She wraps her arms around him, steady and warm, and says nothing more. The moment doesn't need words.
Time passes, and the campfire dwindles. She doesn't know how long they have been sitting like that, pressed together on the stone floor of the cave. The shadows lean in close. Every so often, she feels his chest stutter with uneven breaths, feels the heat of tears he won't admit press against her collar.
Eventually, a soft rustling draws her attention.
Sage, small and even further mended, their broad and large ears twitching, hops delicately into her lap.
Silver smiles faintly, one arm still curled around Matt. She reaches down gently with the other hand to welcome the bunny into her arms.
She'd learned their name earlier before they left the stream, when she sipped on a potion of animal speaking and whispered softly, wanting to offer comfort. "Sage," the little creature had answered shyly.
It suited them. Soft. Resilient.
Now, Sage settles in quietly against her, their tiny form radiating warmth and peace.
She cradles the bunny in one arm, the other still wrapped around Matt.
Neither of them moves.
And when his breathing finally evens out, heavier, slower, Silver realizes he's fallen asleep like that.
Holding her.
She doesn't wake him. She doesn't shift.
Not even when her back starts to ache, or her limbs grow stiff beneath his weight.
She stays still. Keeps him grounded.
Because after everything he's carried thus far, everything that almost tore him apart—
She's not about to let go.
Not tonight.
She might not ever, if she can help it.
The softness she's felt for him from the beginning hasn't faded. If anything, it's only broken wider.
Because even when the world called him a monster...
She still saw the divine paladin beneath the ash.
✧༚˚⟡༺❖༻⟡˚༚✧
📚 Available on ao3 too: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66458593
warnings: canon-typical violence, blood and death, emotional detachment/numbness, themes of moral conflict, religious imagery and oaths, very light body horror (infernal transformation), burned corpses/aftermath of destruction (not super detailed), references to infernal magic and fallen angels, silver uses healing magic and prayers
word count: 965
Reader is called “Silver” by her order and others around her; no given name used
series masterlist | next chapter
❝ He doesn’t smite him. There’s no divine light. No righteous fury. Only steel and hatred.❞
Summary: Matt delivers judgment with his hands. When the law fails the innocent, he becomes something else—something darker. Zariel’s blade feeds on vengeance, and Matt lets it.
But just as the noble’s blood cools in the wreckage, a moonlit figure arrives. Silver was sent to stop the fallen knight…but no one told her what stopping might mean.
She was told to “intervene.”
She was told to “end this.”
No one told her how.
And she doesn’t know which will destroy her faster: killing Matt Murdock…or failing to.
“You asked for justice,” the sword whispers behind him, Zariel's voice coming through it. “This is what it looks like.”
The noble runs.
Of course he does.
Matt doesn’t chase him at first, just stands there, boots planted in the ruins of what was once a lavish manor hall, still soaked in the stench of scorched wood, spilled wine, and blood. His paladin armor is cracked. His hands are shaking.
The Ashen Oath hums at his back. Eager. Waiting.
He steps forward.
The noble stumbles over a broken beam, robes torn and singed at the edges, his staff lost in the wreckage.
“You can’t,” he gasps. “...Wait...This—this isn’t law. You were sworn—!”
“I was,” Matt interrupts, and draws the sword.
He doesn’t smite him. There’s no divine light anymore. No righteous fury.
Only steel and hatred.
He lunges forward, faster than the noble could have ever expected.
He doesn't have time to think or react before the sword is plunged into his chest.
Matt feels a rush of warmth surge through him, more intense than anything he felt in the temple. A red glow begins to burn stronger in his once brown eyes, and he feels his cracked armor replaced by the one Zariel had summoned before. Heavier. Stronger. Corrupted.
He can feel the dark pull that Ashen Oath and the armor already seem to have on him.
When his task is done, Matt drops the body on the altar that the noble once used for blood magic. The sigils beneath it ignite one last time...then crack.
Ashen Oath burns red-hot in his hands. The runes along its length glow with fresh power. The hunger is sated…for now.
Matt breathes in the ash.
Once a man who begged for justice on his knees...
...now one who delivers judgment with his hands.
He doesn’t feel guilt.
He doesn’t feel anything.
A chill runs through him, but he dismisses it as the adrenaline leaving his body.
But the wind shifts.
And in the distance...
A beam of silver light approaches.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⚖️ ☽ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Silver gasps when she comes upon the remains of the ruined manor. What was once a lovely little home on the outskirts of the village has now become a pile of destruction.
And when her eyes land on the body lying in the rubble, she realizes this could very well be an omen, too.
She immediately moves forward, her hands glowing, already prepared to cast cure wounds.
Something tugs at her heart when she sees the expression of fear engraved on the man's face.
She casts once.
Then twice.
And she's ready to cast a third time, nearly depleting her mana levels, when she pauses.
The scent hits her.
Beneath the stench of death and smoke... sulfur.
She realizes this is something far beyond her abilities...
And that, unfortunately, no matter how hard she tries, the man isn't coming back.
She sighs softly and reaches out to close his eyes. She murmurs a quiet prayer to Selûne, hoping for guidance...for the man, wherever he ended up.
She looks up at the full moon...almost shining brighter than she remembers...but asks softly, "Have I failed you, my Moonmaiden? What is it you require of me?"
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⚖️ ☽ ⋆⁺₊⋆
The memory comes unbidden.
She’s kneeling in the moon chapel of the Order, pale light filtering through the stained glass dome above her. It’s quiet here, always quiet. The silence is meant to bring peace.
Tonight, it only sharpens her nerves.
Before her stands the High Seer, face shadowed by her silver-blue hood. Her voice is low. Careful.
“There’s been another attack,” the Seer says, voice low and grave. “A noble under divine watch for his use of blood magic, he was meant to be punished, but not harmed at this time...However, reports now say he was targeted by a former paladin, who appears to have taken matters into his own hands...but the scrying went dark before we could confirm his fate.”
Silver blinks, shocked. “Former?”
“He’s turned,” the Seer says, voice tightening. “His name was Murdock. Once sworn to Tyr. Now…something else...something darker it seems."
Silver straightens slightly. “And you mentioned the scrying cut off?”
“The room was consumed in flame. The magic ruptured. But what we did see…” The Seer hesitates, as if still weighing the truth of it. “He wielded an infernal blade. A greatsword, marked by Zariel, which has led us to believe he's fallen.”
A flicker of heat curls in Silver’s chest—confusion, disbelief. She’s heard the name. Everyone in the Orders has. Ser Murdock. The unflinching. The voice for the voiceless. A fierce protector of the innocent.
Fallen?
“We believe there’s still light in him,” the Seer says softly. “But it’s fading. Much too fast. He walks with the dead now. He must be stopped before he crosses too far.”
Silver’s breath catches. She straightens a little, uncertain.
“You’ve been chosen to find him,” the Seer continues. “Follow his path. Intervene, if you can. End this.”
Silver swallows. The weight of the words settles over her like frost.
Intervene…End this.
She bows her head. “If it is the Goddess who wills it… I will carry it out.”
“May the moon guide your steps,” the Seer says.
And that’s it. No further instruction. No clarification.
Just the mission.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⚖️ ☽ ⋆⁺₊⋆
She blinks back to the present, standing among the ruins, the noble’s corpse cooling at her feet. Her stomach in knots.
“End this.”
What if they meant...
She stops herself. No. She must not dwell on her orders.
Her grip tightens around her staff. She looks further around the wreckage, spotting a faint trail of burned soil leading into the trees.
As she steps into the night to follow it, she realizes...
She’s not sure what frightens her more.
The idea of killing him…
Or the idea that she might fail to.
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