I Swear I’m Still the Hero!

After Farah had finally awakened, drained but alive and stubbornly insisting that she was “quite capable,” the two of them set about doing what they could to mend the ruin that had been left behind in Hamilton. It was not the sort of healing that could be accomplished with a single spell or a sweeping gesture of divine light, and much of it was the slow, exhausting work of walking broken streets and facing what remained.

Entire neighbourhoods had been scarred. In the end, hundreds of homes were declared total losses, reduced either to splintered timber and collapsed roofing or left standing but uninhabitable, their interiors torn apart by claws and fire and things that did not belong in any world that called itself sane. More than two thousand people had lost their lives, and the cruelest truth of all was that most of them had not died as themselves. They had been twisted into monsters first, their final moments spent as something other than who they had once been.

Some of the destruction had come at Farah’s own hand. Her long-reaching palindromic spells, radiant and terrible in their precision, had carved clean lines of annihilation through entire blocks where monsters had nested too deeply to extract safely. The spells had saved thousands more, though they had cost homes and history and the quiet comfort of ordinary lives. In the final report, the damage was deemed acceptable in light of the alternative. It was a phrase that tasted bitter in Umbra’s mouth.

There were vigils in the days that followed. Candles lined the banks of the Waikato River. Flowers gathered in growing heaps at intersections where fighting had been fiercest. Names were read aloud in trembling voices, and for a time the entire city seemed to move more quietly, as though afraid that any loud sound might fracture the peace everyone found themselves in now.

And yet, as people always do, Hamilton endured. The evacuees gradually returned from shelters and temporary housing. Insurance assessors came and went. Builders began measuring and hammering. Children, resilient in ways adults often forget, found ways to laugh again. The rhythm of life resumed, not unchanged, but continuing all the same.

Now, beneath a pale sky that threatened rain but had not yet decided, Umbra and Farah stood before a bank of microphones outside the Hamilton City Council building. The council crest loomed behind them, an emblem of civic order that felt almost fragile compared to what had unfolded only days earlier. Reporters crowded together in a restless mass, cameras mounted on shoulders and tripods, red recording lights blinking like a constellation of watchful eyes.

“Did you know this attack was coming?” one reporter called out, his voice cutting through the low murmur.

Umbra considered the question carefully before answering. She did not rush, though exhaustion lingered behind her eyes like a shadow that refused to lift.

“I suspected,” she said at last, her voice steady if somewhat worn. “But only a few hours in advance. Wherever the Witch of the Void traveled, devastation followed. The moment we detected her presence in Hamilton, both we and the New Zealand military began mobilizing. There was no hesitation.”

Another voice rose quickly. “So many lives were lost. Couldn’t this have been prevented?”

Umbra’s expression tightened, though she kept her composure. “She took us by surprise when she opened a portal to Earth. I had been awake for nearly a week at that point, hunting her across my own world. When she dragged both of us here, I did not rest. I pursued her and her spawn relentlessly. In the past two weeks by my own perception, I have slept perhaps twelve hours in total. I did what I could with the time and strength I had.”

There was a shifting in the crowd, the mood neither hostile nor forgiving.

A different reporter leaned forward, microphone extended. “What are you?”

For a heartbeat, the question hung in the air, raw in its bluntness, but Umbra allowed herself a slight, almost tired smile.

“That is a somewhat impolite question,” she replied lightly. “But I understand the curiosity. I am what is known as a Nighthaunter, one of the Witch’s more dangerous creations. I was once human, born here on Earth. After being taken to another world called Ganymede and fighting her there for five years, she cursed me into this form. The curse did not take my will.”

“Who were you on Earth?” someone pressed.

“I will abstain from that question,” Umbra answered firmly. “Next.”

“If you can control monsters,” another reporter began, “can you control people?”

A faint flicker of indignation crossed her features. “I cannot control anyone,” she said. “My magic is not that of domination. I am a warrior, not a puppeteer. The Witch commanded the monsters. I destroyed them.”

Farah shifted slightly beside her and murmured something in Ganymedean, her voice low and concerned. “Are you well, my love?”

Umbra gave a small nod in response before turning her attention back to the crowd.

A reporter near the front raised her hand. “Is that an angel with you? Is she a messenger of God?”

Umbra glanced briefly at Farah, whose wings were currently folded neatly behind her in a way that did little to make her appear less conspicuous.

“She is an angel, yes,” Umbra replied. “But not a messenger of the God you are likely thinking of. She serves the Triplet Gods of Ganymede, a triumvirate who govern that world. She does not speak English. She is native to Ganymede.”

“The moon?” someone asked quickly.

“A curious coincidence of names,” Umbra answered, “but no.”

Another question followed almost immediately. “What will you do now?”

Umbra paused longer this time, as though weighing not just the words but the implications behind them.

“Time does not pass equally between our worlds,” she explained. “One week here is roughly five years on Ganymede. I hold the title of Countess there and am responsible for a substantial county and the people who reside within it. During the six days I have been present on Earth, more than four years have passed in my absence. Travel between the worlds appears to distort that passage further.”

There was a ripple of murmurs at that.

“I intend,” she continued, “to show my wife a little more of my homeworld before returning there to resume my duties. Earth is not abandoned, nor is it forgotten. But I have obligations in both places, and I cannot neglect either forever.”

She continued answering questions for some time after that, though the minutes began to blur together in a way that made it difficult to tell how long she had truly been standing there beneath the weight of the cameras and the unrelenting curiosity of the press. Some of the questions circled back to her intentions, pressing her on whether she planned to remain on Earth or involve herself in future crises. Others were directed toward Farah, whose presence seemed to fascinate the reporters just as much as it unsettled them. They asked about angels, about gods, about whether divinity now walked openly among them. Umbra did her best to respond with patience, choosing her words carefully even as fatigue began to creep up her spine and settle heavily behind her eyes.

It was not the physical exhaustion alone that threatened to undo her composure, though that was certainly present. It was the strain of explaining herself again and again, of compressing years of suffering and battle into brief, digestible answers suitable for evening broadcasts. Each response felt like lifting something heavier than the last, and eventually she felt that familiar edge that warned her she had reached her limit.

She raised a hand slightly, signaling an end.

“That will be all,” Umbra said, her voice still steady but lacking the earlier firmness. “Thank you for coming to speak with me, and thank you to all those I worked alongside. This would have been far more difficult to manage alone.”

There was a murmur of shuffling feet and the beginning of shouted follow-ups, but before the noise could swell again, Farah stepped closer to the microphones.

She leaned forward slightly, her dark skin luminous beneath the overcast daylight, her elven features softened by a serene and almost playful smile.

“I love my wife,” Farah announced carefully, the words shaped with visible concentration. “She is great hero. Good bye.”

Her accent was thick and the grammar imperfect, but the sincerity in her tone needed no translation.

Umbra’s head snapped toward her in open surprise, eyes widening for a brief second before she broke into a grin that felt far more genuine than any expression she had worn during the conference. A ripple of startled laughter moved through the gathered reporters, and even a few camera operators seemed momentarily charmed.

Without offering any further clarification, the two of them stepped away from the podium and made for the council entrance while reporters continued shouting questions behind them. Umbra, still not entirely accustomed to the exact height and forward curve of her horn in Earth’s architecture, misjudged the clearance and drove both of them straight into the underside of the overhang with a heavy, splintering thunk, cracking it neatly before she stepped back and freed herself in a small shower of dust. Attempting to recover what remained of her dignity, she ducked this time, just not quite enough, and promptly smacked her forehead into the glass panel above the doors, producing a sharp crack and a spreading spiderweb fracture that drew a unified gasp from the press.

Muttering something untranslatable under her breath, she pushed the door open and walked inside as though none of it had happened.

Once through the doors, the noise of the crowd dulled into a ignorable hum. The lobby was spacious and polished, and the people inside paused mid-conversation to stare openly. Council staff, security personnel, and a handful of civilians who had come for unrelated matters all found their attention drawn to the unusual pair who had just entered.

Umbra did not particularly mind. She had grown accustomed to being stared at.

She turned to Farah and spoke in Ganymedean, her tone lighter now that the microphones were gone. “You learned some English?”

Farah’s smile widened just a little, pleased with herself. “A little,” she admitted. “Just enough to say that. Also to say, ‘I do not speak English.’ One of the healers taught me while I was awake and waiting for you to return.”

Umbra let out a soft chuckle. “The fact that you learned even that much so quickly is impressive. I struggled terribly with Ganymedean when I first arrived. Had the mages not forced the language into my mind through less than pleasant means, I suspect I would still be confusing verb endings.”

They moved toward a seating area in the lobby and lowered themselves carefully into a pair of reinforced chairs. More than a few glances continued to follow them, curious and wary in equal measure, but no one approached.

Umbra leaned back, her posture sagging now that she no longer felt obligated to appear indestructible. The exhaustion she had been holding at bay finally asserted itself fully, settling into her bones like lead.

“I need to sleep,” she admitted quietly. “I am beyond exhausted.”

Farah regarded her with gentle concern, tilting her head slightly in that way she had when she was considering something practical but kind. “We can find somewhere for you to rest,” she said. “And when you wake, perhaps you could show me more of this world. I would like to see it properly.”

She hesitated only briefly before adding, lowering her voice, “I also collected some of the Witch’s blood when I split from you earlier. We can return whenever we wish.”

Umbra looked at her, surprise flickering again, though this time it was softened by gratitude and affection. Even in the midst of chaos and recovery, Farah had been thinking ahead.

“I would love that,” Umbra replied, and for the first time since the battle had ended, the future did not feel like an obligation or a weight, but like something they might step into together and actually enjoy for the first time in a decade.