What's the difference between me and Heide?
Shalap had asked that question once—quietly, bitterly—to the air, to the room, to anyone in Taskhand,
Evena who cared enough to think.
Gars had said, "He isn't reckless."
Sinus had said, "He seems mature."
Monday had said, "He's experienced."
And Heide himself had said it plainly: "I'm just better."
Just like that. No explanation,
But how? Shalap was barely two years younger. Only two years—two goddamn years. So how was Heide able to do everything she couldn't? Why did he shine while she faltered in his shadow?
"It must be the Clarion," she had said once in Wanora's office, her voice taut with something between exhaustion and resentment.
Wanora, ever calm behind her paper-strewn desk, glanced at her. "And why do you think so?"
Shalap had lowered her gaze. "Well… Heide can use the Clarion of Touch. He can literally change matter. He can create weapons, pillars—he can fight. Isn't that why he's better?"
Wanora's eyes lingered on her, unreadable. "You think?" she said. "Sinus has the Clarion of Touch too. He can't even do half of what Heide does. But if they fought, Sinus would win. Ten times out of ten."
Shalap clenched her fists. "Sinus is older than him."
Wanora set her papers aside. That quiet movement had more weight than any argument. "Is that so? So you think just because he's older—fine then. Let's talk about your Clarion. Why do you think it's weaker than Clarion of Touch?"
"I mean…" Shalap hesitated. "The best I can do is scout. I can help people."
"And that's something good, isn't it?" Wanora's voice was gentle, but firm. "You can guide people. Using the hairs you drop, the ones you can communicate with."
"Well… yeah. But even Heide can do that. Hell, he can probably save people better than me." Her voice cracked then. "Why did you even accept me?"
Wanora's expression didn't change. "Didn't you want to be accepted?"
"Yes," Shalap whispered. "But… I heard Gars tell Sinus once that you probably wouldn't accept me. And now, the moment you saw me, you accepted me instantly. Why?"
Wanora looked at her for a long moment. Then said simply, "Perhaps because you do have potential."
"How?" Shalap's voice was tight, on the verge of trembling. "I can't fight. I can't protect anyone."
"You think that because your Clarion is hearing," Wanora said. "What you don't understand is, each Clarion is suited for something. That doesn't mean it's weak. Just different. Shalap… your Clarion depends on creativity. Unless you're creative, you won't fight like Heide."
Shalap stood. "HOW? HOW CAN THE CLARION OF HEARING EVEN FIGHT?"
Wanora sighed and folded her hands. "Fine. Let me tell you something. Do you know the Emperor?"
"Yes…"
"He has the Clarion of Hearing. And he is considered one of the strongest people alive."
"What…"
"Yes," Wanora continued. "He uses it his own way. You need to find yours. Oh, I know—how about screaming like a banshee?" Wanora chuckled.
"What? But my Clarion doesn't affect my mouth."
"Well, I gave you an idea. Think about it." Wanora smiled. "Besides, you have great reflexes. If not, why not use them?"
---
"How does screaming help me? This is stupid. Why can't I get an artifact?"
Shalap was sprawled on the floor of the training room, drenched in sweat, speaking through gasps. Gars, leaning against the wall, only shrugged.
"An artifact is valuable, you know. Depending on which one you get, you can become powerful."
"Don't you all have artifacts?" she asked, still panting.
"Soul-tied?" Gars tilted his head.
"Soul-tied? What's that?"
"Well, it's when it's connected to your soul. Doesn't have a physical form anymore—becomes stronger, in a way."
"I want one too," Shalap said.
"You need to know your body well for that. Control your Clarion properly. Among us, only Wanora and Monday have soul-tied artifacts."
"Oh…"
"When can I get one then? A normal one?"
Gars rubbed his chin. "Let's see… If you can prove yourself, I'll get you an artifact. Wind dragon-tier sound good?"
Shalap smiled despite her exhaustion. "Of course."
"Then let's train your attack reflexes," he said, already walking toward her. "You've got potential—might as well use it."
---
But now, everything hurt.
She was dying.
She had no stamina left, her vision swam in reds and blacks, her lungs felt as if they collapsed in on themselves every time she breathed. She hadn't removed the knife in her chest—it hurt less to leave it in than to tear it out.
Gabriel had left her there. Just like that.
Heide was unconscious outside. Even if he got up, he couldn't handle Gabriel and the others alone.
"I need to help him," she muttered, dragging herself to her feet.
She limped through the corridor, every step sending shockwaves of pain through her body. Her ears rang—no, not rang. Listened.
Screams. Sinus grunting. Someone laughing at him. Heide breathing raggedly. And—Gabriel. Ahead. Waiting.
He turned, already smiling. "I thought it was you. Could smell your blood coming toward me. Still not done? I'll kill you properly this time."
Then—
Muscle tension.
She didn't even look. Just dodged. Barely.
Surprise flickered in his eyes.
She gripped the knife in her chest, tore it out, and stabbed it into his nose, dragging it upward into his brow. Blood flooded his eyes, blinding him. He screamed, but was still standing.
A punch came, fast—full-force. She weaved out of its path.
It wasn't just her reflexes. It was her Clarion.
She had awakened.
She wasn't creating weapons or altering matter. She was doing something far more terrifying—
Reading.
Every heartbeat from Gabriel, she heard.
Every shift in blood pressure as he prepared to move.
Every twitch, Every contraction as he curled his fingers for a punch.
She could hear it all.
Instead of reacting after the attack, she was anticipating.
She moved when his muscle groups entered the eccentric phase—just before force generation. She struck during relaxed states, when tissue was at its softest, slowest, most vulnerable.
Gabriel had fought in hundreds of battles.
He had killed more people than she had ever met.
But right now, in a sense, he was deaf.
And she could listen.
Every punch—aimed precisely at points of muscles during their weakest contractions.
The biceps tensed to pull—countered—slashed.
It wasn't brute strength.
It was rhythm.
Cut after cut.
Hit after hit.
She moved like Gars now, but not quite.
Where he fought with instinct, she fought with analysis.
After thirty-seven targeted strikes and seventeen calculated stabs—
Gabriel fell.
And didn't get up.