A/N: So, this piece is basically, kinda a rip-off of Tamora Pierce's "Circle of Magic." When I read her books, I'm just so inspired to write...exactly what she did. But, with my own characters and stuff. So I pulled four characters from several of my different fanfictions and original pieces, and fit them into this.

It would be insanely complicated and confusing to write a crossover fic. So, those characters from fanfictions only very vaguely refer to their original homes. If at all. So...I guess it's a game of "Find the Fic?" Cookies for the winner? Lol. Looking at my pro won't help you, though. I don't have any of these characters on there, haha.

There is huge diversity in this piece. Medical conditions, ages, gender, sexuality, friendships, MAGIC differences, etc.

I also have a rule. No reviews, no updates. However, if you're only going to say something MEAN and not the least bit constructive, go away right now.

Thanks for giving me a chance to vouch for my piece. If you're interested, please enjoy!

As the capital city of all of Aneka, Lamira was full to the brim with all sorts of Anekans. From the rich with multiple houses and connections to Anekish royalty, to the homeless that often ended up either in gangs or as beggars. Somewhere in that huge mess of Anekans stood little Augustus. His age was uncertain, but Jonah and Yanna had decided it to be about 9 or 10 by now. He was the everybody's little brother. He could barely walk by a gang-mate without getting his raggedy hat twisted or his grey hair tousled.

Despite the hard circumstances he had found himself in, Augustus could always be found with a smile on his face and in his wide, grey eyes. His pale skin darkened only a little from the sun in the summer months.

Jonah was his savior. He had found Augustus in the corner of an abandoned, burned-out house one night. Though his cries of terror and misery had been loud enough to be heard from outside, he had refused to speak a word once awakened.

A few days had passed, and he still hadn't spoken. So Jonah had dubbed the boy "Asher," and handed him his very own grey rag to wrap around his waist. And thus began the training of a low-life gangster.

But today, now a year older and fully-trained, Augustus didn't feel like doing anything illegal. It was the end of the month, and the Law Enforcement Officers were more diligent than ever, trying to get their arrest quotas in. Instead, he made his way over to The Old Mot's, in the middle of river than ran beneath the Market Bridge. Unlike Anekans that were like Yanna and a few other gang-mates of his, he could barely handle touching water. But that was OK, because he managed to join in with a group of sick beggars on their way over by boat.

As huge as the city was, most people knew most everyone else. At least in the poor side of town. So the beggars knew Augustus wasn't a big talker. They kept to themselves during the short ride over.

Once the boat hit land, Augustus jumped off the boat and ran up to The Old Mot's cottage. What he saw upon opening the door made him tilt his head.




The two cousins shared their usual, screamed greeting as they shared a hug upon seeing each other. Ruquayya's father merely chuckled from the driver's seat of the car. "And I thought you two wouldn't get along," he joked. All three of them laughed. "Well, c'mon, then, girls. We have to get going."

Obediently, the cousins split up to get into the backseat of the car. Once the doors were closed, however, it was as if they had never been parted.

"Aren't you so excited?" Fiyaba asked her older cousin.

"I don't know," Yaya said. "What if it turns out like the last school?"

"It won't," Fibi said certainly. "Trust me."

"How do you know?" Yaya teased her younger cousin.

"I just do," Fibi assured her. They giggled.

"Did your mom really stop the Vitiligo?" Yaya asked.

"Yeah!" Fibi exclaimed. "Look!" She revealed her skin in a few places to show that the pale spots scattering her brown skin were just the same as the last time Yaya had seen her. "Not even a little bit more."

"But she couldn't get rid of the green in your hair?"

Fibi proudly combed her fingers through her raven hair streaked with green. "I don't want her to," she said. "I love it!"

Yaya grinned. "Good," she said. Though she didn't fully understand it. If her dark brown hair were streaked with an unnatural color, or her dark skin were patched with paleness, she certainly wouldn't like it. But it didn't really matter, anyway. Because she loved Fibi with all her heart, as much as she loved her siblings and parents. And she would support her no matter what.

"What happened at the other school?" Fibi asked.

Yaya sighed. "A lot," she said. "But mostly, I just couldn't get magic to work for me. Everyone else could do charms and spells with their wands, but not me. I couldn't even fly a broom! So the headmaster sent out some letters, made a few visits..."

"Don't you mean, 'made a few calls'?"

Yaya chuckled. "No. They don't do normal stuff like phones and everything there."


"You're tellin' me!" They laughed.

"So that's how they decided to bring you to Ravenwood with me?"

"Yup," Yaya said. "Someone told the headmaster that they had someone there to teach me my kind of magic."

"Your kind of magic?" Fibi asked. Yaya shrugged. "Well, if they say so, I guess." She turned to Yaya's father up front. "Are we there, yet?" she asked.

Mr. Kent laughed. "We just left. It's going to take at least another hour." He continued to laugh at the sound of the girls' groans.


Ilya Ivanovitch Nikolov landed softly on his feet just outside of the town of Swan's Crossing. Once balanced on the ground, he pulled his flying contraption over to the side and tapped it on the ground. The shorter sticks near the top and the bottom of the long stick, along with the lengths of fabric attached to them, collapsed into that long stick, effectively turning that flying contraption into a staff.

He glanced around the area. Good, no one seemed to have seen him. Relaxing, he began his casual strut into town.

"That's quite the machine you have there."

The small hairs on the back of Ilya's head stood up as he stopped himself from jumping ten feet into the air. He was sure no one had been behind him a second ago.

"Don't worry, I won't tell anybody."

Slowly, he turned his whole body around. His eyes fell upon the palest woman he had ever met. She was almost like a ghost. Her brown hair had one grey streak, which was pulled back with the rest into a tight bun behind her head. Her eyes were a clear blue, and piercing into him, despite her pleasant demeanor and gentle smile. She wore a yellow peasant top with jeans, and carried a red backpack. The backpack, however, was currently on the ground by her sneakered feet.

"Ilya Nikolov, right?" she asked, holding her hand out to shake. Her nails were long and filed into a rounded shape at the tips.

He stared at her, unable to speak. He had just transported into the world a few hours ago. How did this random woman possibly know his name?

"Ivanovitch," he finally choked out.

"Hmm?" she asked, tilting her head.

He swallowed. "You forgot 'Ivanovitch.' I'm Ilya Ivanovitch Nikolov." Hopefully she had the wrong person, now. Surely there had to be other Ilya Nikolov's out there, in this world. Maybe. Right?

"Yes, I'm sorry," she said. "You're right. Ilya Ivanovitch Nikolov. I'm Moira Murphey." She twitched her hand, still hanging out there for him to shake.

Carefully, Ilya looked down at her hand and took it in his own, shaking it. Nothing happened. Then they both pulled away.

"How do you know me?" he asked.

She grinned. "I know a lot about you, my dear," she said. "Like that you need my help."
He frowned and puffed out his chest. "I don't need anyone's help," he assured her.

She shook her head with a grin. "I thought you'd be like that," she said. "How was your flight? Fly into a couple of trees, did we?"

His resolve faltered. "No," he lied anyway.

She chuckled. "I know a school that will teach you how to fly better."


She nodded. "Where they have teachers that know all about your kind of magic. And can teach you."

"How do you know anything about me? Or my magic?"

She sighed. "You don't trust just anyone, do you?"

"Why should I?"

"You're perfectly right. Here..." She reached down and unzipped her backpack. She reached in and rummaged around a bit. While she was busy, Ilya immediately thought about running off on her. This lady had to be bad news. People who knew things were dangerous. Especially when they then offer to help you. "Aha!" Moira announced just as Ilya was about to turn around. His shoulders drooped as she pulled out an old, elaborately-decorated, golden hand-mirror and straightened.

He raised an eyebrow at the mirror. "I'm not gonna stand here while you primp yourself, beauty-queen," he said. She laughed.

"It's not for primping," she told him. "It's for Seeing."

"Yeah, seeing yourself," he said insistently. She laughed again.

"No, Ilya. Seeing. Here, look." She turned it around so Ilya could see himself in the reflective surface.

"What?" he asked immediately.

"Not very patient, are you?" she teased. "Ask it to show you something. Anything."

He squinted, looking above the mirror at her. "Ask it?" he said. "It's an inanimate object."

"Think of it more like a...like a robot," she said. "But with a mind of its own."

"That's stupid," he said.

"Just try it," she insisted gently.

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, he looked back down at the mirror. "Show me..." He thought. He grinned. "Show me my father." That would ruin the whole thing for her, he was sure. He didn't have a father.

His image in the mirror began to blur. His eyes widened as the image in the mirror turned into a mosaic of colors until the colors finally settled down, revealing a scene of a man with blond hair sitting at the table of some tavern or inn, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. His head was down.

Ilya gasped, subconsciously raking his fingers through his own blond hair. Like the man's, his matched the color of wheat. Their pale skin tones were exactly the same, too. The man in the mirror raised his glass and drained it. His face was ragged and tired. His facial hair barely tamed.

"Drugoy!" the man shouted.

Ilya struggled to hold back tears. Shaking his head, he grabbed the mirror from her grasp. "This thing is stupid!" he announced, raising it into the air to smash it into the ground. But as he swung his arm down with as much force as possible, nothing hit the ground. He blinked and inspected his hand.

Moira cleared her throat. He looked up at her to see the mirror in her hand, the back facing him.

"You need to learn more respect for people's things," she said.

"I don't need to learn nothing!" he yelled. "Not from you, not from anyone!" He turned to storm away.

"You did that to yourself, Ilya," she said to his back. "Now, about those trees..."

"I didn't run into any trees!" he shouted over his shoulder.

"Right," she said. "What about that storm you blew up a couple days ago? Sunk a ship?"

He froze.

"How do you know about that?" he whispered.

"I know a lot about you, Ilya, like I said before," she said. "All thanks to this mirror." She walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "No one can do anything for the lives lost on that ship, dear. But if you come with me, we can make sure nothing like that will ever happen again. Together."