Vanniall Trans | 'link'

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. 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

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. That night, the Silversmith returned