Vanniall Trans ((exclusive)) -

And for the first time in three hundred years, she is not wearing a disguise. She is simply trans . Transformed. Transparent. True.

I wish to be seen as I am.

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

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 transformation began, as all things in the Gloaming do, with a debt. And for the first time in three hundred

A spindly creature named the Silversmith stumbled into the shop, leaking starlight from a cracked carapace. He couldn’t pay his tithe. Vanniall, moved by a mercy their stern exterior wasn't supposed to feel, quietly forged the ledger. They marked the debt as "void."

They pressed the scale to their chestplate. Transparent

The part was simple: be the stoic, unfeeling son of the Gearwright. Keep the books. Speak in a low, grating rumble. Ignore the way your core ached when you saw the weaver-moths dance in the lantern light, their shimmering wings trailing colors you wished you could wear.