Vanniall looked at their reflection in a polished soul-coin. She saw a face of polished silver, with eyes like twin amethysts. She saw herself .
Vanniall’s brass fingers trembled. They could wish for wealth. For power. For escape from the Bazaar. But the truest, most desperate wish rose from their core like a song. vanniall trans
The air in the Gloaming Bazaar always smelled of rust and cinnamon. Vanniall hated it. They had hated it for three hundred years, every day of their life as a ledger-keeper for the Whispering Scales. Their body, a sturdy, square-shouldered vessel of brass and dark oak, felt less like a self and more like a very old, very boring suit of armor. Vanniall looked at their reflection in a polished soul-coin
The transformation began, as all things in the Gloaming do, with a debt. Vanniall’s brass fingers trembled
I wish to be seen as I am.
And for the first time in three hundred years, she is not wearing a disguise. She is simply trans . Transformed. Transparent. True.
They pressed the scale to their chestplate.