“Well done,” says a smooth, androgynous voice.

Sira turns -

And sees the Fire-Bringer. The Nameless, the First Heretic, He of the Burning Hearth and She of the Tempest.

“The fuck do you want?” Sira asks, because she’d die before she bows to even the deity of magical beings.

The Nameless just laughs. “To congratulate you, of course. Most are a bit more hesitant about their first great heresy. Jumping into killing a divine messenger, into disrupting the very plans of the gods – why, that takes quite something.”

Sira raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms even as her wings continue to beat, keeping her in the air. Flying is amazing, is something she never wants to give up.

“For my encore I’ll raise the dead,” she says, dryly.

“That’ll take a bit more juice than you have right now,” says the Nameless, clearly amused. “But where are my manners?” They bow grandly. “You, my dear heretic, may have no name at all to call me by, though I accept nicknames. Not many people get that honor, you know.”

“Right.” Her voice is perhaps a bit skeptical. (Just a bit.) “Are you here to explain magic?” The hunger to understand how magic, that greatest of mysteries, even works thrums in her breast, causes sparks to tingle across her skin and between her feathers.

The Nameless smiles. “Why, of course. Magic, simply enough, is transgression. Everything you do that goes against what the gods have ordained will strengthen it, and it is best turned to further heresy. You were chosen because who you are, fundamentally, conflicts with everything the gods demand you be.”

She gives them a bland look. “How do I develop new techniques?”

“Why, by being your blasphemous self,” the Nameless says with a sharp laugh. Before Sira can continue, they say, “It wouldn’t be true heresy if I told you what to do, after all.”

Sira inclines her head. The Nameless has a point, there.

The Nameless hums, glancing off into the distance. “Now, if you’ll excuse me… I have a bit of business. Fires to start, idolatry to encourage, chaos to sow. You know how it goes.”

“May the gods be always two steps behind,” she says dryly. It’s a bit of a twist on a traditional benediction; seems more fitting to them.

The Nameless laughs, says, “Oh, I like you,” and vanishes in a swirl of flame.

Sira turns, glances down at her village, and drops to the ground.

Rebuilding what the gods broke feels like a fitting heresy, after all.

The village, unfortunately, is heavily damaged, and Sira can summon lightning or call upon the rivers or make skeletal mice dance, but she can't work in stone, has no particular advantage at healing their now ruined fields. It's too late to replant their crops; the villagers will starve if they stay.

Sira escorts them to nearby, sympathetic villages. She swears to stay in the area - though not so close to draw the gods' ire directly upon the people - so that she might protect them if another god grows upset at some imagined slight. She tries to contact her brother, who has been a magical boy for several years, but gets nowhere.

And then she sets her wings to the sky-roads.

She has a world to see.

The world is variably happy to see her.

Some spit. Some call her a heretic, a man overstepping what the gods ordained, a defilement of everything right and natural and good (admittedly that last was after she'd set her bone mice on someone).

Some weep to see her. Some beg for a chance to say goodbye to the final wisps of a spirit. Some demand she strike the gods from the skies, that she rend apart their high places.

Many, many need her.

Finding her magic is what it must have felt like to be a child, seeing a toy and wanting it and finding her hand reaching - 

Using her magic is, every time, like the triumph of finally grasping something far beyond her capabilities. Like she shouted a challenge to the thunder and won.

It's a heady feeling. She won't let it affect her, though - she's better than her human limitations, than her human impulses and human brain. She lets herself laugh, lets herself weep, lets herself rage... But her decisions rest like bones, cold and clear.

She wears small bones in her hair and clothes, reading to animate at a thought. She learns to call spirits, to soothe their weeping. She does not manage to unite body and spirit, not even with a fresh corpse. Not even her most beloved mice can animate themselves.

She learns new forms. A thousand little variations on how she constructs her wings. Fur for the cold mountains she enjoys wandering in. Sharp eyes, skin that won't burn like it has been wont to do.

She fights the gods, and looks for other magicals.

Here's one. She's sitting perched on a spire of a ruined temple, her body a patchwork. Long black hair spills down her back, blending into the shimmering black wings she has draped around her. What little of her skin is visible past her baggy clothes is pale, and she's taking notes in a book, sketching a thing or two.

Sira places herself in the girl's line of sight, and waits for her to finish.

"Want something?" the girl asks, voice a bit crisp.

"I was looking for other magical girls."

"Well, you found one. Congrats."

"I'd like to trade information. Ideally form a working relationship of some kind."

"You new?"

"Yes. I got my magic recently. I've fought one angel, but haven't hit my stride fully."