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.
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. vanniall trans
That night, the Silversmith returned. He didn't offer coins. He offered a single, iridescent scale, like a shard of frozen rainbow. “A transmuter’s chip,” he whispered. “One wish to change a single, true thing about yourself. No more, no less.” Vanniall’s brass fingers trembled
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. For escape from the Bazaar
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 .