Makarov Drayark sat in his office pounding a pit into his desk with the hammer plows of his tapping finger. He had a decision to make within the next few months one that could rock Villia to its core if he stayed idle.

A new proposal had been drawn up and was on its way to being law. The result of its passing may not be as catastrophic as the creation of Mur, which he failed to prevent eighty years past. Even so, there would still be damage felt throughout the kingdom.

Mur kept most of Vellia's population outside the city with no kind of protection to speak of, creating the Null Road as a result. City guards weren't even allowed to visit, by order of the king. Their only real purpose now was to kill anyone that made it past the wall without papers. The exposed masses and lack of magi also made the edges of the Nulls perfect hunting grounds for monsters spilling from the otherworldly rifts deep within the forest.

As bad as Mur made life for most of his people, If Makarov did nothing, the situation would get much worse.

The new law proposed keeping beast cores out of the hands of mundane citizens. The extremely valuable stones could only be made in the bodies of beasts mutated by the mana permeating the rifts connecting the nine worlds. These pathways were ripped open during Ragnarök, evidence of the World Tree’s destruction, or of its survival depending on who told the story. The mana flooding those areas had to come from somewhere after all, and some believed it to be Yggdrasil itself.

The mana spilling from the tears in space made plants grow large and carnivorous, transformed natural metals into enchanted ore like mithril or orichalcum and turned nearby creatures into ferocious monsters. Within these monstrous plants and animals of the rifts, beast cores would form. They’d be hunted for the precious resource, collected to power spells, enchantment items, and most importantly, progress cultivation.

Beast cores were useless to anyone without magic, except for merchants. They were often used as currency, sometimes replacing gold entirely. It was common practice to collect one’s wealth in the form of cores, only using a small percentage as merchandise.

Some spoiled group of nobles, probably too weak to gather the cores themselves, or didn’t have the money to purchase them, concocted this scheme. Every noble house would be flooded with cores when they were confiscated, but the long-term consequences would be far-reaching.

More than half of all merchants doing business in Vellia would lose everything. It would take time, maybe a year or so, but it would happen. The more affluent merchants would either leave for distant lands where the beast core could be sold, or stay, scraping by with a fraction of their previous fortune.

With the merchant class brought low, Vellia would fall to ruin. Nobles would quickly find themselves penniless. Makarov’s family was no exception, but the old man wasn't worried about that. He had more than enough gold, and so did his peers. The source of his turmoil was the people outside of Mur and beyond.

They’d be starved worse than they already were when the few merchants selling them food disappeared. Farming wasn't even possible, not if those with magic didn't protect anyone outside the city.

A dark laugh escaped Makarov as he came to a decision. Brushing his hand over his desk, every piece of paper related to his current problem burst into flames, disappearing soon after without leaving ash. He wouldn't need them any longer, because he wouldn't negotiate. He wouldn't waste his time trying to find a bloodless way to resolve this. He was more than a century old and was tired to death of babysitting this kingdom. To hell with bribes and blackmail, he’d just kill everyone involved.

One by one, over the next month or two, many would have unfortunate accidents or simply disappear. If any of the royal family had a hand in this, he’d have to let them be, but a few royals could do nothing alone. If Makarov killed off at least half the conspirators it would be enough, but he wouldn't be the one to kill them; that’s what strikers were for.

As Makarov’s laughter died down, someone started banging on his door angrily. “I’m not leaving until you hear me out Makarov,” the person making the racket said through the door.

A smile creased Makarov’s lips as he sent a strand of mana to undo the spell keeping the room secure. He knew the owner of the angry-feminine voice and was glad to hear it. But he had to wonder why Magna came to visit twice in one night.

“You've given me nothing to listen to yet. Maybe you should stop howling like a banshee and tell me why you're here,” Makarov chided as Magna barged into the room.

“I only yelled because you always try to make me wait, because I'm not one of your fancy strikers anymore. If I brought a severed head with me, would that speed things up?” Magna spat with frustration.

“I prefer hearts to heads, but how about you stop wasting time and get to the point,” Makarov said cheerfully. “I've got a nation to hold together if you have forgotten.”

“Fine,” Magna huffed, taking a seat in front of Makarov with none of the grace she used in front of her orphaned children. “I want Brand, one of my orphans, to enter the striker program, not when he’s seventeen, but now, this week if possible.”

Makarov's eyes went wide. “You want to send one of your children into my team of, what do you call them again, a bunch of soulless butchers.” He started to laugh uproariously, holding his stomach as any semblance of composure. “Magna, you hate strikers. You’ve tried to stop me from training almost all the ones I have now. Why in Vara’s name do you want this Brand kid to be one?”

Magna sat straight in her chair; legs crossed while knitting her fingers together in an attempt to hide the disgust written all over her face. It was as if the idea of sending one of her children down this path turned her stomach.

“Brand’s been fighting in a fighting pit for some time. He’s trying to raise money before he’s forced to leave the orphanage. It’s not the worst plan. There really aren't any real prospects for him. As far as he knows, in a few years, the streets will be his home unless he has some coin to his name."

She gave a disapproving leer at Makarov; one he'd grown used to over the years. "I don't think he'd be risking himself in fights if we just told him we'd hire him not even a day after leaving, but we won't tell him now will we.”

Makarov stopped laughing at hearing Magna's words. She was clearly being serious. “You want me to take him before he ends up dead or broken from fighting,” he stated, as more of a question than anything else.

“That, or forced to work for a slumlord if he continues to win for too long,” Magna said, her confident playful attitude melting away to worry.

“Wait," Makarov said. “He's winning?"

He was starting to get an overall picture of what she wanted. He opened Saint Hilda’s to help the lost children of the city by giving them a decent home until they were grown enough to work for his noble house as servants, guards, or anything he could think of. The reason no one outside his house knew this was the second purpose of the orphanage was a steady supply of strikers.

Strikers were the unseen backbone of the Dreyark household, and the inconspicuous protectors of Vellia. They were all rogue magi, with skill burned into them through hellish train, making even the weakest amongst them superior to most nobles in combat. If someone or something threatened the kingdom, it was their job to stop it, by any means necessary, even if the threat was within the government itself.

Makarov ordered the deaths of many of his peers over the years and committed more crimes than he could remember. the blood and death were all in order to shepherd the nobles from the edge they sat upon. But to keep Dreyark safe, there could be no connection between them and any striker. That's why Makarov only started training after they left Saint Hilda's, leaving no paper trail to be followed.

“I understand you wanting me to take the boy in ahead of schedule, but why a striker? He could be a cook, clerk, horse master, or a hundred other professions you approve of.”

“It won't matter what I tell you,” Magna explained. “You won't ignore that he’s sixteen and able to fight in the pits after not being stopped by my focus. And when you meet him, he’ll convince you to make him a striker without even trying. the little rebel doesn't care about rules or decency. all the thing you spend year beating out of my children he's already lost.”

“He sounds mad, like those men without sense or conscience. I don't like dealing with those types,” Makarov insisted.

Magna regained a playful demeanor. She raised her hands up defensively as if his words were attacking her. “Ok, I may be painting a bad picture of him, but he is a good boy at heart. He's protective of his friends at the orphanage and does listen to me if it does not concern going into town.”

“You know the money made in the pits is far more than a boy like him should need. One night of fighting should last him a fortnight of easy living, far above whatever he's used to. Looks to me like he's stupid, greedy, or both,” Makarov said in an inquisitive tone.

Magna's hands came down, and a faint smile crept on her lips as she thought about the real reasons Brand hungered for gold. “He’s not gathering money for himself.” A skeptical look appeared on Makarov's face in response, but he remained silent and patiently waited for her to finish. She continued with pride in her voice. “I asked Astrid and Uhtred, his friends about it. Brand is working so when they all leave Saint Hilda’s they can live a decent life. He’s two years older than them both, so he’ll set things up when he leaves first.”

Makarov took a lengthy pause, musing over all that had been said. This boy did sound promising, and Magna’s recommendation and failure to control him went farther than she knew. He would ignore any complaint she made over a child being too soft or too kind to become a striker. But if it was for being cruel, greedy, or all-around untrustworthy, Makarov would have them do hard menial tasks or leave them to the streets. The matter of Brand ignoring her focus was also a great sign.

“Does the boy have the painkilling focus? That may explain how he resists you,” Makarov asked hopefully.

“No,” Magna said in response. “If he did, he’d just walk past me, not struggle through every step to getaway. I don't know what he can do yet. His focus should have manifested by now, so it has to be something subtle.”

“Damn, that's too bad,” Makarov groaned in disappointment. “I want one of those.”

“Ok,” Makarov said, rubbing his hands together as if finishing a deal in his favor. “I’ll take the boy tomorrow night. We’ll say he ran away so there’s nothing linking him to us. Have his bags packed. I’ll send over a striker to fetch him.” Snapping his fingers, Makarov remembered a very important detail Magna had left out of the conversation. “By the way, what is the boy's race?”

Magna looked away, her eyes shunning his own. “He’s Jabari,” she said in a whisper after Makarov gestured for her to speak.

His mouth hung open like a confused dullard. “What!”