PetVet1023: Wow. You left a review within a few hours of me putting up the Prologue. I'm completely amazed. Like, Woah. And here's the next chapter for you. As for the compliment, I can't thank you enough. I just have to remind you that the only reason my writing is any good is because people, such as you, decide that you like it. Grazie!

"Pretty, pretty please, don't you ever ever feel

Like you're less than, less than perfect.

Pretty pretty please, if you ever, ever feel

like you're nothing...

You are perfect to me."

—Pink

Chapter 1

Philyra withheld a yelp as she hit the wall, sliding to the ground.

"What have we told you about speaking, child?" Hissed her stepmother, Ilda. "How dare you endanger my children!"

Philyra trembled as she avoided Ilda's sharp look. All she had done was ask Rolfo to stop yanking her hair—but that hurt less than the retaliation she got for speaking when Rolfo ran off screaming that she had made a sound. The blow Ilda gave her would bruise. Badly.

After a while more of Ilda yelling at her, she was cast out the door, told to go to her room, and stay there the remainder of the day. No dinner. Again. Something or other would have made her lose it even if she had been silent. Ilda seemed to think that Philyra's very existence was worthy of punishment.

Philyra scrambled up the little ladder that lead to the storage loft above the house. Her "bedroom" was a little corner with a few old blankets. Other than that, the room was filled with boxes of the junk her stepmother kept buying, using most of the money her father worked to earn. Philyra's half-siblings, eight-year-old Rolfo and his sister, little five-year-old Sandra, had fine clothes, toys, and food. Ilda spared no expense when it came to her precious children, or herself. Philyra's merchant father made no where near enough to support the lavish lifestyle his wife and two younger children led—and didn't question where the money came from, mostly because he was so tired and worn out all the time. Philyra knew though. Nothing in this house escaped the notice of the little girl who seemed to be a mouse in another life, only quieter. Not the fact of the existence of her stepmother's secret and rich lover, not the fact that her father didn't know, didn't care, how she was treated.

Philyra's job in life was to keep silent and out of sight. She was strange, different, than the other children. Her stepmother had noticed early on, after marrying Philyra's father when Philyra was only four, that Philyra had something wrong with her. Philyra's voice did strange things when it made a sound—moving things without touching them, causing little rain showers indoors, even shattering glass when she got upset.

And here in Liloorlie—an isolated town that reaped it's bounty from the sea—superstitions were strong, and a hatred of supernatural and out-of-the-ordinary things was plentiful. Any magic users who came to town were chased out. People feared anything that didn't fit into their ways of reason and logic. The sea itself was feared and respected because it contained a rich wealth of magic lore and caution. If a person was found to have magic, they were often lynched out of fear, and their families, if they weren't killed as well, were disgraced and left as beggars on streets where people avoided them.

Thus, Ilda deemed that the cause of Philyra's strangeness was her voice. Any sound from the now twelve-year-old girl-child resulted in severe punishment. If word got out that Philyra might have magic, it would ruin Ilda's carefully built up status, and any futures her children might have. In fact, the only reason Ilda hadn't thrown Philyra out was because her father wouldn't allow it. He may not notice the bruises hidden beneath her clothes, but he would, at least, notice that she wasn't there.

Philyra huddled in her blanket, which was poor use in keeping out the coming winter chill, and tried not to cry. Tears did nothing. She knew that all too well.

She had nearly calmed herself down entirely when she heard the tip-toe tread of a certain little girl make its way across the loft, between the boxes. A few moments later, a blonde little girl with blue-green eyes came into view. Philyra withheld a sigh, and gave Sandra look that clearly said "you know you're not supposed to be up here."

"Hey Phee." Sandra whispered, "Are you okay?" Sandra was the only one who really liked Philyra. She constantly snuck away to talk to and be with her older half-sister, unbeknownst to her mother and brother. She was a sweet child, if naive. But she was five. She was supposed to be innocent. Philyra hoped and prayed that she'd stay this way, kind to all and happy, and not end up like Ilda.

Philyra nodded, looking at her sister with her one visible, stormy grey eye. Her other eye was always hidden behind her hair—and with good reason. Sandra could interpret Philyra's expressions and gestures, and could talk almost easily with Philyra.

"I'm sorry about Rolfo. He was being a big fat meanie-pants." Sandra said, apologetically. Philyra shrugged before pointing at Sandra and shaking her head, telling her that it wasn't her fault. Sandra leaned over and hugged Philyra, who tentatively returned it. Then Sandra leaned back and pulled a little comb from her pocket, and looked hopefully at her sister. Sandra wasn't allowed to play with most of the kids her age, and she thought the ones she could, more often than not, were "meanies." Meaning, she often liked to do things like brush Philyra's hair and talk to her.

Philyra gave her an almost-but-not-quite-smile and shifted around, letting the blanket drop from her shoulders to her elbows. Sandra happily started to untangle Philyra's hair and chatter happily, albeit quietly, about her new pet bunny, Cotton. It had been her birthday present from her uncle on her mother's side. She adored the young, pure white rabbit. Philyra felt a rare moment of peace, listening to her sweet little sister talk. It wasn't often she felt this way, and she enjoyed it as best she could, since these moments were few and far between.

Not too much later, Sandra's nursemaid could be heard calling for the little girl. Sandra gave Philyra a hug and a kiss on the forehead and scrambled to leave before she was caught somewhere she shouldn't be.

Philyra inhaled deeply and settled to wait until night had fallen and the house was asleep. Only then would she dare nick something from the kitchen and sneak out to take a walk in the nearby woods. Most people thought it scary at night. She found it comforting. The rumors of monsters that came out once the sun set were nothing compared to most of the humans she knew. The humans were real.

…. …. ….

Nearly a year later, a few months to Philyra's fourteenth birthday, a bearer of awful news came to the family. Philyra's father had been killed in a landslide while he traveled back to the home. The whole family wept and mourned—except Philyra. She just stared blankly, wide-eyed. She was too scared to cry.

Because, now that her father was gone, who was to stop Ilda from throwing her out?

…. …. ….

"15 coppers."

"20."

"17."

"Deal." Ilda said, accepting the coins from the man. She then push Philyra towards him. He grabbed her and slapped the chains around her wrists before bending down and putting them around her ankles to. He then proceeded to push her into the pen with the other enslaved.

"Nice doing business with you, ma'am." The slaver said.

Ilda nodded and turned around, heading back to her now "evil"-free home. The only one who'd ask any questions was Sandra, and that only because she was a very curious child. But the burden Ilda had been forced to care for was gone, and wouldn't ever return to this town.

Philyra didn't even glance at her stepmother as she left, but a painful throbbing had started in her chest. For the first time in her life, she was completely, utterly, alone. At least until now her life had been mostly predictable. Now, she had no clue as to what awaited her.

And even though she kept her face carefully blank, her eyes stung with unshed tears.

…. …. ….

The pace of travel was hard. It was late spring, so cold wasn't as much of a problem, especially since most the the slaves didn't have more than rags bound around their feet, if they weren't barefoot. But it was still fast. The slavers pushed them to go as far as they could every day. Philyra's feet were quickly covered in blisters and her entire self ached.

But she wasn't as alone as she originally thought. That first night, when they stopped, Philyra was huddled by a tree at the edge of the female slaves' pen—they at least kept the genders separate—and hoping that no one would notice her. She had fleeting thoughts of escape, but she pushed them away. There was no way she'd get far in the chains that bound her feet and wrists together. One could only really shuffle along like this.

"So who was that woman who sold you yesterday? Your mother?" said a voice. Philyra looked up to see a woman several years older than her. The woman's head was shaved, like most of the slaves (they hadn't done Philyra yet, and she was determined to keep it that way, making especially sure not to be noticed—if any of the slavers saw both of her eyes…it'd be bad news), and she had clever blue eyes that sparkled, implying trouble to those who crossed her.

Philyra shook her head and curled up tighter. She'd seen this woman knock one of the male slaves out cold that day when he tried to...touch her.

"Oh, don't worry, I won't bite—or hit, for that matter." She grinned and sat in front of Philyra, "Here. Take it as a friendship offering." The woman pulled out half a loaf of bread, and tore it in half, offering the larger half to Philyra, who looked at her, the one visible eye wide.

Hesitantly, Philyra reached out and accepted it, taking an eager bite.

The woman's smile softened, "Whoever she was, I doubt she fed you well. You're just as skinny as I am, and I've been with this lot for nearly four years—I'm trouble, it seems, and no owner likes trouble. Actually, that's a half-truth. There are a few who like breaking us in like horses, but I always act meek and mild around them. I've got this down to an art, I do." She ripped a piece off of her own tough bread and popped it in her mouth, "'Sides, some of the slavers seem to have a soft spot for me at this point. I help the kids keep quiet, though you're the youngest one with us at the moment. From what I've seen, though, you're far quieter than any girl your age ought to be. Can you even speak at all?"

Philyra shook her head, touching her throat. Better to lie than reveal her dangerous voice.

"Ah, so that's it. Well, I'm Tigress. At least, that's what everyone calls me. Heck, I barely remember my birth name at this point. What's your name? Since you can't speak, can you write it in the dirt?" The full moon was so bright it didn't matter that they weren't near a torch.

Philyra had barely started to learn to read and write when her father had married Ilda. She hadn't gotten much further than her name before it happened. She barely remembered it. But she managed to trace out the letters in the dirt, her letters shakey. A

"Ooh, Philyra. That's a pretty one. Well, Philyra, it's nice to meet you." From that point on, Tigress decided to take care of the shy girl. When Philyra had given her a look that clearly asked why, Tigress replied that she had extremely good sight and had a good feeling about her new little friend. She didn't mind that Philyra didn't speak, and spoke enough to where Philyra wouldn't have had to anyway. She protected her from the slavers and the other slaves.

And for the next month as they traveled through the large forest that was the only pass between the mountains that isolated Philyra's birth town and the rest of the world, Philyra felt, despite the chains, safer, freer, than she had in a long time.

…. …. ….

Philyra had just learned from Tigress, who'd been eavesdropping as she served the slavers their dinner, that they'd been reaching the next town in two days, and three days after that, they'd be in the city.

And the next night, as everyone slept and the watchmen drifted off, Tigress woke Philyra an hour or so after midnight. "Philyra, wake child, wake!" She hissed.

Philyra looked up at the woman, her friend, confused.

"Just come on!" Tigress was wiggling something in the keyhole of the ankle manacles. She smiled slightly as it opened. Philyra's eyes went wide. Tigress moved to the wrist ones. "You have to get out of here." Philyra saw that Tigress' chains were also off. Tigress noticed and smiled ruefully. "We're both leaving. But it's you who really needs to leave. Let's go!" The chains around Philyra's wrists feel. Tigress caught them and lowered them silently to the ground, the grabbed Philyra's hand and pulled her up. She began to run, Philyra stumbling behind her as fast as she could.

Endless minutes of running and Philyra was gasping and full of painful cramps, everywhere from her sides to her ankles. She wasn't sure how much further she could go when Tigress slowed down.

"I think we're far enough away to be able to take a break. A short one, at least." Tigress said. Philyra collapsed to the ground gasping and clutching her stomach, trying not to throw up. Tigress, breathing heavily, sat tenderly next to her. "I owe you an explanation. We're running away because I don't want you to end up in the miserable wreck of a life that mage-children always seem to end up living—as puppets for the rich."

Philyra looked up at the woman, wide-eyed and scared.

"Be patient. I've got some more things to explain. I've got a little magic, see—sight-magic. I can see things, glimpses of the future, other people's magic. My mother had it, too, though her gift was far stronger than mine. Mine's fair weak. But you, child, you have enough magic ability and power that it's glaringly bright even with my weak ability. That's why we left—one of the slavers is a magic-user, and he can sense magical power. He's sensed it in you. They'd use that to drive up your price when they sold you, and you'd be sold to some who abuses your power. I can't let that happen to another person, I can't." Tigress took a deep, shaky breath, "That's what happened to my little sister. She was only a year or so older than you, and they sold her. The person who bought her used her magic so much that it burned her up and killed her eventually. I don't want that happening to you, Philyra. No one deserves such a fate. You don't deserve such a fate."

"My magic's a curse." Philyra whispered, making Tigress jump.

"You can speak!" she exclaimed, "I thought you said you couldn't...wait." Tigress went silent for a few moments, then spoke up, her voice gentle, "You came from Liloorlie. That town hates magic. If your magic was in your voice, of course you'd keep it quiet. I bet that's why you were sold, too. Because of the magic. But, child, listen to me." Tigress took Philyra's face between her hands, "Magic isn't a curse. It is a tool. It is only as good or as bad as the one who uses it. If it's a curse, it's only because you think it is. It's a gift if you accept it and use it for good things. Do you know what they call those whose magic is wielded by their voice?" Philyra, still wide-eyed, shook her head slowly. "Spellsingers, child. And spellsingers are just as rare as those who have the Sight. When we get free, I'll take you some place where you can be taught to use your magic, and you'll learn that it is not a curse. Understand?" Philyra, trembling, nodded hesitantly. Tigress hugged her, then pulled back, keeping her hands of Philyra's shoulders. "Good. Let's get going then, or we'll never get anywhere."

Then there was a distant snap. Tigress stiffened, "Someone's noticed our absence. Run!" Tigress pulled her up and started running. Footsteps began to near them, and Tigress cursed in a language Philyra didn't know. She pushed Philyra towards a tree, "Climb! Hurry!" She hoisted her up to the first branch and took off running as soon as Philyra had pulled herself up. Philyra climbed as high as she could. She saw, rather, heard several people run under the tree beneath her. She paused, going absolutely still. A minute or so later she heard a scream. Tigress! But Philyra was too petrified with fear to move.

Eventually footsteps made their way beneath the tree again, men cursing and frustrated that the "magic child" had disappeared—from what Philyra could tell, Tigress had told them that she had run the other direction and Tigress had drawn the men away from her, allowing her to escape. Philyra felt a tear slip down her cheek when she heard one of the men say that the "troublesome slave b***h" had "been taken care of" to the point where "she's no longer a problem." Tigress was dead, or nearly so. The only person who had ever truly cared about Philyra was gone. And it was her fault. It was the fault of her and her curse called "magic."

When the men were gone and her heart stopped pounding, Philyra carefully made her way down the tree and in the direction Tigress had run. When she saw a crumpled form, Philyra stopped caring about being careful and ran over to her, gently turning her over. The woman gasped weakly in pain.

She was still alive.

But only barely.

"Child," she said, cradled in Philyra's small arms, "Why are you still here? You need to leave, to run. They might come back."

"I...I couldn't l-leave you…" Philyra choked on a sob, her voice barely audible.

"You must." Tigress said as firmly as she could, "You must find a place where you can learn to use your magic and help people. Promise me."

"I...I c-can't…"

Tigress gingerly reached up her arm and cupped Philyra's face, "You need...to figure out...how to get over your...fear...of magic…" her voice was growing fainter, "You can...do it…I know you...can…" Tigress' hand fell as the light that was life faded from her eyes.

An anguished cry from a scarcely used throat echoed through the woods, full of pain. It caused the ground to shudder and the trees to shake. It sent tremors out from the vessel into the very earth.

As she cried over the body of the one person who had ever truly cared about her, she vowed to herself never to use her magic. It was because of her magic she'd been an outcast and a danger to her family, it was why she'd been sold into slavery, it was why Tigress felt that she had to free Philyra. It was what had caused Tigress death.

No. Philyra never wanted anything to do with her magic ever again.