I Swear I’m Still the Hero!

Umbra was beginning to feel something dangerously close to urgency, which was not an emotion she particularly enjoyed. It felt tight and itchy in her chest. The bad people were coming for her. She could sense them in a way she did not fully understand, like a pressure at the edge of her awareness that grew stronger whenever she stood still for too long. They were coming to kill her again, just like the diary had warned.

She still did not remember that part, but the diary had been very clear about it. The knight and the angel had killed her once before, and if she did not prepare properly, they would simply do it again. That was unacceptable.

Before they arrived, she needed control. She needed to take over this world properly and then, once it was secure and devoted to her, she would return to the other world, the one the diary claimed she had originally come from, and she would deal with her terrible sisters who apparently despised her for reasons she was sure were unfair.

The diary would not lie. It had been written in her own hand. Or at least, it looked like her handwriting, and the thoughts inside it felt like they belonged to her. It would be foolish to assume she had tried to deceive herself, especially in something meant to guide her future self after something as dramatic as ego death. So she trusted it completely.

The sky was still dark, though the faintest grey was beginning to gather at the horizon. Most of the smartapes were asleep in their little homes, tucked away in neat rows along quiet streets. Umbra would have preferred a grander approach, perhaps a public demonstration, but subtlety had its advantages when one was pressed for time.

She would have liked to make more smart servants, because smart servants were far more interesting. They could think for themselves and make decisions she might not have considered, and it was always pleasant when something surprised her in a good way. If they retained intelligence, she did not have to micromanage them constantly, which freed her to focus on larger goals.

But making smart servants required time. It required explanation and, ideally, willingness. Even if willingness could sometimes be persuaded. She did not have the patience for that tonight.

Fortunately, she had Luna, her right hand woman, her good girl. Umbra had made sure Luna understood how to grant the gift properly, especially the more delicate version that preserved intelligence and personality. Whatever smart servants Luna created would have to be sufficient for that category.

Umbra would focus on numbers. Dumb servants were faster to produce and far less complicated. They did not argue or ask questions, and they did not have preferences that needed to be respected or incorporated into the design. Since they lacked personal taste, Umbra was free to shape them however she pleased, which she found deeply enjoyable.

In her opinion, they were far prettier.

She adored exposed bone worked into elegant patterns beneath semi-translucent skin, extra limbs arranged in pleasing symmetry, jaws lined with layered rows of teeth, and long claws that scraped pleasantly against pavement. Smartapes had such limited imagination when left to themselves. Their standard proportions were dull.

Umbra moved quickly from house to house, slipping inside through doors or windows or, when she felt impatient, simply through the walls themselves. She worked with focused efficiency, pressing her hands to sleeping forms and pushing her will into them. Flesh shifted beneath her touch, bones rearranged, and instincts were rewritten into simple devotion.

On one quiet street she found several cats and dogs wandering near bins and fences, and it seemed wasteful to ignore perfectly usable materials. She folded some of them into her new servants, blending fur and muscle into taller, more elaborate forms that possessed too many eyes and tails tipped with delicate hooks.

In an alley behind a bakery she discovered a swarm of mice. She counted them carefully before beginning, because she enjoyed precision, and there were eighty-two in total. Gathering them together into a single writhing mass, she reshaped them into something that stood upright, though not entirely evenly. It had many whiskers and several sets of bright, darting eyes, and it trembled with eager energy. She found it amusing and allowed herself a pleased smile when it chittered in overlapping voices that it was happy to serve.

She did not neglect the smaller creatures either. As she moved, she infused insects with fragments of her essence, granting them simple directives and a faint connection to her awareness. They scattered across rooftops and into drains, spreading her presence outward in a widening web.

By the time the sun began to rise properly, pale gold light stretching across the rooftops, she had transformed nearly two hundred smartapes into dumb servants, managed to produce one or two smart ones who had awakened quickly enough to comprehend and accept her offer, and created several hundred animal and insect servants besides.

It might be enough.

She hoped it would be enough.

The diary had described the knight and the angel as extraordinarily powerful, powerful enough to kill her once before. If that was true, then she could not rely on raw strength alone. She needed misdirection.

They were tracking her somehow. She could feel it. Their approach was steady going and direct, like hunters following a trail. That meant she needed to make the trail confusing.

Occasionally, as she traveled, she would pause and consider the ground. With casual detachment she tore off one of her fingers, sometimes two if she felt particularly industrious, and buried them beneath soil or rubble. The pain was insignificant and fleeting, and her hand regenerated almost immediately.

Each buried piece still carried her essence, so let them chase those echoes.

The diary had also described something called a broodmother, and Umbra had found that section especially fascinating. It involved growth and replication and decentralization, which struck her as strategically sound.

In a secluded area near a park, she arranged several dead smartapes in a rough circle around a living one. The living one had been very loud and resistant, so she had rendered it unconscious to simplify the process. She coated its body in her blood and pressed her hands against its chest, pushing a larger portion of her divinity into it to accelerate what would naturally take much longer.

The ground trembled faintly as something new began to take root within it.

The expenditure of power did not concern her. She would recover quickly, especially once her numbers grew further.

Stepping back, she studied the beginnings of the transformation and felt a swell of satisfaction.

“Actually,” she murmured thoughtfully, “perhaps several more broodmothers would be wise. If they are spread far enough apart, the bad people will not be able to find them all at once.”

The idea pleased her immensely.

With renewed enthusiasm, she turned and moved off into the brightening morning, already considering where the next one should be planted.

---

Umbra’s eyes drifted toward her wife, who sat hunched slightly over the pointer, a deep frown etched across her delicate features. They had touched down at Hamilton Airport roughly an hour ago, the sun already spilling soft, mid-morning light across the tarmac, illuminating the temporary base hastily assembled in a co-opted warehouse nearby. Crates, tarps, and half-unpacked equipment cluttered the space, giving it the chaotic energy of a place still very much in preparation.

Umbra and Farah had claimed a small perch atop a stack of wooden crates, their legs brushing together as they leaned close. The pointer, a strange compass-like device humming faintly with magical energy, flickered and quivered as though uncertain of its bearings.

“What troubles you, my love?” Umbra asked softly.

Farah didn’t look up immediately, her eyes fixed on the device as her fingers drummed lightly against the crate. “The pointer… it has been acting strangely for the past hour. According to it, the Witch is in multiple places simultaneously, scattered across the city.”

Umbra blinked, trying to digest the words. “What… how is that possible?”

Her wife lifted her gaze for a brief second, meeting Umbra’s, the worry deep in her eyes making Umbra’s heart twist. “It shouldn’t be possible unless… unless she has somehow split her flesh, dispersed fragments of herself across the city. If that is the case, locating her will be far more complicated than we anticipated.”

Umbra’s claws brushed lightly against Farah’s hand as she considered the implications. “You have blessed their weapons. The military will be prepared, they can fight against her creations, and they may even stand a chance if the horrors appear. That should alleviate some of the numerical concerns.”

Farah shook her head slowly, her lips pressed in a thin line. “Perhaps, but if she has divided herself this much, the innocent will be caught in far more danger than we first thought. This city… there are too many people, too many unprotected lives.”

Umbra tilted her head slightly, musing. “Perhaps she is not hiding at all, but instead trying to find a base of operations. She clearly knew we were coming; maybe she is still establishing herself, testing the ground before committing fully.”

Her voice softened, but the tension remained. “Maybe… I just worry,” Farah admitted quietly, almost to herself.

Umbra leaned closer, pressing her claw gently against Farah’s cheek, drawing her in until their foreheads nearly touched. “It will be fine,” she whispered firmly. “We will hunt her down, locate every fragment of her, and purge her completely. Only then will this city be safe. Then we can finally go home and—well, perhaps we can relax for a little while.”

Farah’s frown deepened, though there was a hint of mischief in it. “Relax? You? Oh, you won’t be relaxing. Everyone out there thinks you are dead. When you return, they’re going to lose their minds.”

Umbra gave a dismissive snort. “Let them. They can celebrate at my borders for a few years while I take the rest I am owed.” She crossed her arms. “I have not stopped working since the war ended.”

She tilted her head slightly. “You at least had those few days of peace after the Witch fled. Time moves faster on Ganymede. You had space to breathe.”

Farah went still.

“Peace?” she repeated.

Farah’s eyes flared, her wings twitching slightly as she pushed herself upright, voice rising enough to make several of the base workers pause mid-motion and glance their way. “And for much of that ‘work’,” she said, voice trembling with both fury and emotion, “I was in agony from your absence!”

Umbra flinched under the intensity of the gaze, hunched her shoulders, and lowered her head in submission, feeling the weight of her misstep. “I am sorry,” she murmured, voice soft and genuine. “I did not consider that. Will you… will you accept my apology?”

Farah held the stare for a long moment, her eyes like sharp, dark pools, but the fire gradually softened. Umbra, sensing the shift, stood and lowered herself to one knee, her head bowed fully in a gesture of penance and devotion.

The base had gone quiet, and people stared.

“Please,” she said, her voice trembling slightly despite her usual composure, “you are my light. I cannot bear to see you upset. I will do better, I promise. I will always do better for you.”

The tension lingered for a heartbeat longer, then Farah exhaled, her posture relaxing. Slowly, deliberately, she reached out and guided Umbra’s head onto her lap, her hands threading through Umbra’s hair and stroking gently.

“As long as you understand what you did wrong,” Farah murmured, her tone softening further, almost tender, “I could never stay angry at you for long. Not at all.”

Umbra closed her eyes, letting herself melt into the touch, her heart settling in the warmth of her wife’s forgiveness.

“Did I say to stop working? Get back to work!” Shouted a familiar voice

Footsteps approached at a brisk pace, boots striking concrete. Umbra did not move.

“Mrs. Steelblight. Mrs. Steelblight.”

It was Captain Murphy.

“Yes?” replied Umbra, as her wife did not understand English.

“There have been sightings. Overt ones. Monsters in the streets.” His voice was controlled, but only just.

Umbra rose in a single sharp motion and turned toward him.

“Pardon?”

He handed her a stack of printed photographs. She snatched them from his grasp faster than he could register the movement. Her eyes moved rapidly across the first image.

Her stomach sank.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “This is her work.”

The first photograph showed several corpsestealers moving between suburban houses, half-hidden in the shadows of fences and hedges. Another captured a mound of twisted bodies in an alleyway, flesh fusing together, limbs knitting and stretching as something larger took shape… a broodmother mid-formation.

There were other creatures too, variants she had not seen before.They were taller, leaner and had elongated jaws and spined backs.

Then she reached the final images.

She stilled.

These were much different.

One figure looked almost entirely human. A woman with ashen-grey skin and striking pink eyes. Her features were unnaturally symmetrical, almost sculpted. A thick tail trailed behind her, swaying just above the pavement. She stood with confidence, not like prey or puppet.

She was flanked by several of the Witch’s creations, as well as two others who did not fit the mould.

One looked almost like a catgirl, ears sharp and alert atop her head. Another bore the broad frame and horns of something close to a minotaur. All of them shared the same grey hue for their skin and fur, their hair being black.

That was the only clear thread tying them to the Witch.

Umbra handed the photograph to Gareth.

“Do you have any information on these ones?”

“No. Just ground photos and some drone footage. We think we’ve identified the house they exited but we haven’t confirmed it yet.”

That confirmed her suspicion.

“These are people altered by the Witch of the Void,” Umbra said. “Like myself.”

Gareth’s eyes flicked toward her.

“Unlike me,” she continued, “they appear to be cooperating with her. Her lesser creations are not hostile toward them.”

“If you’re not under her control,” Gareth said carefully, “does that mean they aren’t either?”

“That,” Umbra replied, “is what I intend to determine.”

She tapped the image lightly.

“If they are controlled, then they must be eliminated quickly. The intelligent thralls are far more dangerous than the mindless ones. They can command, strategize, and coordinate the attacks of lesser monsters.”

“And if they’re not?”

“Then they are victims,” she said evenly. “And victims can be saved.”

Gareth studied the faces again. “Anything else?”

Umbra shuffled through the photographs and separated several, holding them out.

“These locations. Evacuate immediately. As quickly as you can manage.”

Gareth glanced down at the images. “Why these?”

“My wife’s blessings will allow your forces to handle most of the lesser creatures,” Umbra said. “But these formations…” She tapped the image of the fused bodies. “These will become broodmothers.”

“How bad is that?”

Umbra met his eyes.

“Given enough organic material, a broodmother can produce new monsters every few minutes. If even one is allowed to operate for an hour, you will not be dealing with scattered sightings.”

She handed the rest of the photos back.

“You will be facing an army before nightfall.”