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.
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.
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.
They pressed the scale to their chestplate.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a soft, silver heat bloomed from their center. The brass didn't crack—it flowed . The sharp, angular faceplate softened into a gentle, feminine curve. The dark oak of their shoulders lightened to pale birch, rounding into slender, elegant lines. The grating rumble of their voice melted into the warm, lilting melody they’d always hummed.