After satisfying Farah’s curiosity about radios and reluctantly retrieving her phone once more, Umbra made the mistake of opening an internet search page while they continued walking. She told herself it was merely to gauge public awareness and assess how widespread the footage of her arrival had become. It was, she reasoned, a matter of strategic relevance.
When she typed in “New Zealand Monster Knight,” the search engine returned over seventeen thousand results in less than a second.
Umbra stared at the number for a long moment.
There were dozens upon dozens of videos already uploaded, taken from different angles, some clearly recorded from inside nearby buildings, others from car dashboards, and at least one from what appeared to be a drone. There she was, descending from the sky in a streak of light and smoke. There she was again, standing in the road as a bus collided with her armored frame. There she was lifting debris with casual strength. Each clip had already accumulated thousands, sometimes hundreds of thousands, of views.
That alone would have been overwhelming. Unfortunately, that was not all.
Interspersed among the footage were “artistic interpretations,” as Umbra mentally labeled them in an attempt to preserve her composure. Some were stylized drawings. Others were highly detailed digital paintings. A few were clearly rushed sketches, uploaded with impressive speed and questionable anatomy.
Umbra scrolled once.
Then she stopped scrolling.
There were depictions of her in armor. Depictions of her without armor. Depictions that took considerable liberties with scale, proportion, and practicality. Some leaned into horror. Some leaned into heroism. Some leaned into things she would rather not categorize.
She exhaled slowly through her helm.
“Give it another hour,” she muttered under her breath, “and there will be hundreds, if not thousands, of my wife.”
If Earth possessed a singular unstoppable force, it was not any military power or economic system. It was the collective speed and enthusiasm of NSFW artists responding to new and visually striking material. There was no cavalry charge in existence that could rival their efficiency.
Umbra slipped the phone away before Farah could lean over and ask to see more examples.
They turned into the dockyard district shortly thereafter, the smell of saltwater mingling with diesel and metal. Cranes towered overhead, frozen in place due to the ongoing emergency response. Ahead of them stood a large warehouse that had been converted into a temporary command center. Military vehicles were parked haphazardly nearby, and personnel moved with brisk purpose in and out of the structure.
Umbra slowed slightly as they approached.
“We will be meeting with the military of this nation,” she explained, “along with several members of its governing body.”
Farah’s expression shifted into something attentive and formal. “Have you spoken with the King or Queen of this nation? Are they assisting in the defense?”
Umbra shook her head. “Yes, assistance has been authorized at the highest levels, but this country does not operate under a traditional monarchy.”
Farah raised one elegant eyebrow, clearly skeptical.
Umbra sighed faintly. “Ah. Right. The democracy I mentioned earlier.”
Recognition dawned across Farah’s face. “Yes. The system where the people select their leaders.”
“Precisely,” Umbra replied. “I will do my best to translate and contextualize when we are inside. Their political structures are… intricate.”
“Thank you, dearest,” Farah said warmly, resting her hand briefly on Umbra’s armored arm.
Umbra hummed softly in acknowledgment and stepped toward the warehouse entrance, where two uniformed soldiers stood guard.
She gave a small nod toward the door.
Both men instinctively shifted their attention to Farah.
Their eyes widened.
It was subtle, and they recovered quickly, but the initial reaction was unmistakable. Farah stood radiant and composed, her wings folded neatly behind her, her presence luminous without being blinding. Even amid military equipment and fluorescent lighting, she seemed impossibly out of place in the most striking way.
Umbra felt, against her better judgment, a flicker of pride.
Her wife was dazzling.
“This is my wife,” Umbra said, switching to English with careful clarity. “We will both be entering.”
One of the guards cleared his throat. “You’re cleared, ma’am, but I’ll need to confirm with my commanding officer regarding… your wife.”
Umbra inclined her head in understanding.
The guard lifted his radio. “I have Mrs. Steelblight here with her reported wife. Yes, sir. Understood. Copy that.”
He lowered the device and looked back at them. “You can both go in.”
He pulled the door open and stepped aside.
Umbra had to duck considerably to clear the doorframe, her armored shoulders narrowly avoiding scraping the metal. Farah followed close behind, though she too had to angle herself slightly to accommodate her wings within the confined space.
Inside, the warehouse had been transformed into a hive of coordinated activity. Folding tables were arranged in rows, covered with maps, laptops, and communication equipment. Dozens of personnel moved between stations, some speaking urgently into radios, others typing rapidly, and still others hauling crates of supplies toward the rear loading area.
Near the back wall, a large map of Wellington had been mounted and annotated with colored markers and hastily drawn lines. Several individuals stood clustered around it in discussion.
Among them was Captain Gareth Murphy, who turned as Umbra and Farah approached. He appeared to be mid-conversation with a sharply dressed official whose expression suggested he had not expected additional surprises today.
“Ah, Mrs. Steelblight,” Gareth greeted, though his eyes had already drifted to the luminous figure at her side. “And who have you brought with you?”
Umbra and Farah stopped before them.
Umbra gestured toward her wife with a deliberate motion.
“This,” she said formally, “is Countessa Farah Celestinia Valessine Mariselle Steelblight.”
There was a brief pause.
“Countessa?” Gareth repeated, clearly attempting to place the title within a framework he understood.
Umbra nodded. “A Count or Countess governs a county in our homeland. The Countessa or Countesson is the spouse of the one who holds that authority.”
Farah tilted her head in confusion. Umbra was less than pleased that her wife was excluded from this conversation.
“She does not speak English,” Umbra explained evenly, gesturing slightly toward Farah without diminishing the authority in her tone. “So I will be translating for her throughout these proceedings to ensure there are no misunderstandings.”
Gareth gave a short nod, clearly filing that away as yet another extraordinary variable in an already extraordinary situation. “Understood,” he said. “Was your mission a success?”
Umbra hesitated, and that alone caused several people nearby to stiffen.
“Yes,” she said at length, “but also no.”
A faint crease formed between Gareth’s brows.
“I located and eliminated a broodmother,” Umbra continued, her voice steady but edged with the fatigue of recent combat. “It was well established and actively producing spawn. I engaged it directly. The Countessa,” she inclined her head slightly toward Farah, “eradicated the surrounding creatures and purged the corruption that had begun seeping into the soil and vegetation. The affected area should now be stable.”
A murmur passed through a few of the personnel listening in.
“Unfortunately,” Umbra added, and her frown deepened, “I did not locate the Witch of the Void.”
That drew more visible reactions. A man in uniform folded his arms tightly. Another official exchanged a tense look with someone beside him.
“Then what are our options?” Gareth asked, his tone strained.
“Fortunately,” Umbra replied, and despite herself there was unmistakable pride in her voice, “Farah followed me here from Ganymede.”
She straightened slightly as she spoke, as though the mere fact of that reality strengthened her.
“With appropriate materials,” she went on, “she can construct an enchanted device analogous to a compass. It will attune to the Witch’s residual corruption and direct us toward her current location. When we next encounter her, she will not escape. Farah is a highly accomplished Palindromic Caster.”
The unfamiliar term hung in the air, but the confidence with which Umbra said it seemed to compensate for the lack of comprehension. She could not help the faint upward tilt of her chin. When it came to her wife’s capabilities, restraint simply did not occur to her. There was not an ounce of shame in the admiration she felt.
A man in a tailored suit, who had thus far been observing with visible skepticism, spoke up. “More materials we need to source?” he asked, the faintest trace of irritation coloring his words.
Umbra turned her helm slightly in his direction. “Yes,” she replied, “though not in the quantities you may be imagining. She will require iron, mercury and either electrum or some silver and gold so we may alloy it.”
She then shifted her attention to Farah and switched to Ganymedean, her voice softening subtly in cadence.
“How much iron, quicksilver, and electrum will you need?”
Farah paused, considering carefully. Her gaze drifted upward as if measuring invisible quantities in the air before her.
“A palmful of iron,” she said thoughtfully, “a tint of quicksilver, and a knuckle of electrum.”
Umbra gave a small nod and quickly translated the measurements into approximate metric equivalents in her head, adjusting for density and practical availability.
“She will require roughly a small handful of iron,” Umbra relayed in English, “about forty millilitres of mercury, and about twenty grams of electrum or its equivalent in silver and gold.”
The suited man blinked, some of his earlier disdain fading. “That… should be manageable,” he admitted. “After the amount of platinum we were told you needed earlier, I was expecting something worse.”
Umbra inclined her head slightly. “I did the best I could with the information available to me at the time. The platinum was necessary for stabilization given the materials I had access to.”
She glanced briefly at Farah, and though her expression remained hidden behind her helm, there was unmistakable warmth in her posture.
“My wife,” she added, “is a boon in more ways than one.”
Farah narrowed her eyes slightly and looked up at her. “Why do I feel as though you are boasting about me?” she asked in their native tongue.
Umbra flicked her gaze down toward her, then deliberately looked forward again without answering.
“In the meantime, I need rest. I haven’t slept in nearly a week, and the duration I was unconscious wasn’t exactly restful.”
Umbra’s voice stayed level, but it had that thin, stretched quality of someone who had pushed past exhaustion and come out the other side of it. Dust clung stubbornly to her armor, dried blood dark at the edges of her vambrace, and she held herself upright through what looked less like strength and more like stubbornness.
“Uh, we don’t—” Gareth began.
Umbra raised a hand just enough to interrupt. “I will find a corner and sleep. A soldier needs to learn to sleep anywhere, yes?”
No self pity. No dramatics. Just fact.
Gareth studied her for a moment, then gave a single approving nod. “There won’t be any cots that fit you, but as long as you’re out of the way, sleep wherever. We’ll work on getting your wife those materials.” His gaze shifted to Farah. “Does she need any tools?”
Umbra turned slightly toward her wife. “He asks if you require tools.”
Farah answered in her own language and Umbra listened, then looked back to Gareth. “A table will be sufficient.”
“That’s all?” Gareth asked, not incredulous, just clarifying.
Umbra nodded. “She can shape the metal herself.”
Gareth didn’t question it. He had seen enough already. “That can be arranged. We’ll clear space in the eastern wing. Less traffic.”
Umbra inclined her head in thanks, then moved without further ceremony toward the far side of the hall. She chose a section of wall half shadowed by a pillar, somewhere out of the main path but not hidden.
She removed her gauntlets slowly, placed them beside her, and lowered herself to the stone with deliberate care. Armor settled with a muted scrape. The wall took her weight.
She closed her eyes.
Her breathing evened out almost immediately.
Farah watched her for a brief moment, then turned toward the direction Gareth had indicated, already considering space, dimensions, and balance of the artifice she was about to create.
Sleep for the soldier.
Work for the wife.
Outside, the war did not pause.