“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."

"Well, you did one thing right. Smite-y bastards."

"How long have you had magic?"

"Few years. Spend my days busting slave caravans, mostly, so don't get around to too much angel-slaying. They give less than no shits about humans being assholes to each other."

"A worthy endeavor. Do you want help?"

"...Sure. What's in it for you?"

"I agree with your cause, and have found myself largely adrift, anyways."

"Close enough, I guess. Just - do what I say."

"I'll acknowledge your expertise on raids. But I'm not going to blindly follow you."

"So you do have some sense, then."

"A little. Do you want to practice together, before we try any raids?"

"Yeah. No reason not to, really. Need to know if you can keep up."

"I'm ready when you are, then."

She sets her things aside and jumps down. "Come on. There's a clearing we can beat up this way."

Sira follows.

"Your lead. I've not sparred before."

She nods, falling into a loose stance. "Try not to do any major damage. Pull blows if you have to. When we're still getting to know each other... It's best to go slow, and telegraph everything."

"Right."

And: sparring! Sira is fast, hits hard and sharp, and she's clever, learning quickly despite a previous lack of experience in fighting.

Teaching someone's a drag but Sira's not as bad a student as most. Jessin doesn't slow down to explain anything.

Sira keeps up.

"You're good," Jessin says when they're done.

"Good enough to join you?"

"Yeah. I'll teach you my routine, make up some signals."

"My brother and I had some that worked for us. I can teach you the code."

"That'll be good, yeah."

And off to run through scenarios.

They'll be ready soon enough. Sira's powers grow by the day - mostly in terms of being able to control more and larger skeletons, to do more complex tasks. There is something viscerally terrifying about a swarm of bone mice or a cadre of flying deer skulls, even if she has yet to successfully animate one of the more terrifyingly large fossils scattered here and there.

"I'll make sure to keep track of any especially intimidating skeletons," Jessin says when Sira shares this.

"I would like a titanoboa, to start."

"...A what."

"A type of snake! A really old type of snake. I've seen one of the fossils before. The skull was as large as I am."

"That sounds unlikely."

"I'll show you the skeleton someday, then."

"Might be nice. Where is it?"

"In the mountains near my house, along the wall of a river gorge. It's a rather beautiful area, in general."

"Well, I suppose I'll need a vacation eventually."

"After our first few raids, maybe. It wouldn't be a bad place to leave those we free, anyways. It's not too densely populated, but the soil is good and there's good forage in the forest."

"A good consideration. Places to leave freed slaves - good places, at least - aren't always easy to come by."

"I'd figured that'd be the case."

She nods. "Speaking of, I want to do our first raid soon."

"Do you have a target in mind?"

"There's a few potential ones..."

"Then let's get to work."

The next few months go rather excitingly, between the raids on slave caravans and getting people settled and learning how their powers work together. Over time, they end up needing to do a lot of management work just protecting the people they've rescued, and the slavers are getting smart, aware there's someone hunting them.

Sira, unfortunately for them, is coming into her own as a magical girl, steadily developing an army of her own. Animal bones only, so far - more reputable than legions of human skeletons, and reputation works wonders, here.

There's something viscerally terrifying about bone legions, even 'just' animal bones. As Sira's reputation grows, the slavers have a harder and harder time fielding guards who won't just flee when she shows up.

Good.

She works on their craft.

Starts hitting them harder.

Figures out how to wrest fossils from the canyon walls, eventually.

That is terrifying!

People stop taking slave caravans through her space entirely, no matter how heavily guarded, and a feeling of tension grows on the horizon.

Her titanoboa curls around her, protectively, as she and Jessin expand their operations.

They'll be ready for whatever comes.