Every morning, Vanniall would polish their brass faceplate, tracing the sharp, angular grooves that denoted a male-presenting construct. The grooves felt like lies etched into metal. Their true self, the one that hummed a soft, lilting tune while sorting soul-coins, was all curves and silver light. They were Vanniall, and for three centuries, they had been playing a part.
The Gloaming Bazaar still smells of rust and cinnamon. But now, there is a new shop near the weaver-moth grove. A tiny stall selling starlight-bottles and mended dreams. The owner has a silver face and a lilting laugh. Her name is Vanniall. vanniall trans
They pressed the scale to their chestplate. Every morning, Vanniall would polish their brass faceplate,
I wish to be seen as I am.
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. They were Vanniall, and for three centuries, they
The transformation began, as all things in the Gloaming do, with a debt.
The Gearwright, her father, stormed in the next morning. He found the ledger-keeper’s stool empty. He found a note in a flowing, graceful script: Gone to be what the forge could not make me. The debts are paid. – Vanniall.