Three days passed in relative quiet. Julius proved true to his word, flooding my quarters with documents, reports, and secondhand accounts of supernatural occurrences across Midland and beyond. I absorbed them all with perfect recall, my mind cataloging patterns and anomalies.
Most were worthless. Peasant superstitions, misidentified natural phenomena, deliberate frauds designed to extract coin from the gullible. But buried among the refuse were actual accounts. Testimonies that matched too closely to be coincidence, descriptions that aligned with what Elsa and the mad merchant had told me.
The God Hand appeared roughly once every generation, always to individuals in moments of absolute despair. The sacrifices were always personal, always those closest to the summoner. And the transformations were always monstrous, creating beings the reports called Apostles. Creatures of immense power and twisted form, neither human nor demon but something in between.
I sat in my tower room, surrounded by parchment and ink, piecing together a cosmology I didn't yet fully understand. This world operated on different rules than the one I'd left behind. There was a supernatural architecture here, a framework of power that existed parallel to the physical realm.
Fascinating. And frustrating. Because for all the accounts and testimonies, there was no clear methodology for summoning the God Hand myself. The Behelits chose their owners, not the other way around. And without one, I was simply waiting for fate to decide when I'd get my audience with these self proclaimed gods.
I hated waiting.
A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. "Enter," I called without looking up from the document I was reading. An account from fifty years ago, a knight who claimed to have witnessed his lord's transformation into something with wings and claws that devoured an entire garrison.
Captain Aldric entered, his posture stiff with barely concealed discomfort. He still didn't trust me, smart man. "The Count requests your presence. There's a situation that requires your, talents."
I set down the parchment and stood. "What kind of situation?"
"Better if the Count explains. But it involves the river search. We found something."
That got my attention. I followed Aldric through the fortress and down into the lower levels, where the stone walls wept moisture and torches struggled against the darkness. We emerged into a chamber that served as both armory and evidence room, where Julius waited beside a table.
On that table, carefully placed on a cloth, was the Behelit.
It was exactly as described. Egg shaped, roughly the size of a human fist, its surface covered in human features. An eye here, a mouth there, a nose, more eyes, more mouths. They were arranged randomly, without symmetry or sense, as though someone had taken facial features and scattered them across the surface like dice.
And it was looking at me.
Not the eyes, not specifically. But the entire artifact radiated awareness, a sense of being observed that prickled against even my perfect senses. This wasn't an inert object. This was something alive, something conscious.
"We pulled it from the river this morning," Julius said, his voice carefully neutral. "Exactly where you said it would be. The men who found it, they said it felt wrong. Like it was watching them."
I approached the table slowly, studying the Behelit from multiple angles. The features didn't move, didn't blink, but that sense of awareness never diminished. Whatever this object was, it was far more sophisticated than primitive magic should allow.
"Has anyone touched it?" I asked.
"Only with gloves," Julius replied. "After what happened to the merchant, I'm not taking chances. But we need to decide what to do with it. Destroy it, lock it away, throw it back in the river."
"You can't destroy it," I said with certainty. "If these things could be destroyed, the Church would have eliminated them centuries ago. They're persistent for a reason."
"Then what? Keep it locked away forever?"
I reached out and picked up the Behelit.
"My lord!" Aldric moved forward, hand on his sword, then stopped. What was he going to do, cut off my hand? We both knew how that would end.
The Behelit was warm in my palm, almost body temperature. The features seemed to shift slightly, rearranging themselves as I watched. The eyes all turned inward, focusing on me. The mouths opened slightly, as if to speak.
But nothing happened.
No visions, no whispers, no promises of power. The Behelit simply sat in my hand, inert except for that pervasive sense of wrongness.
"Interesting," I murmured. "It's trying to read me. Trying to determine if I'm marked by fate, if I'm a suitable candidate for whatever transformation it offers."
"And?" Julius asked.
"And it can't. I'm outside its parameters. I don't fit the pattern it's looking for." I turned the Behelit over, examining every angle. "This thing operates on predestination. It finds individuals whose fate has already been written, whose moment of sacrifice has already been determined. But I'm not from this world. I'm not part of its causal chain."
"So it's useless to you."
"For summoning, yes. But as a research specimen..." I looked up at Julius. "I'm keeping this."
"Is that wise? If the Church discovers you have it—"
"Then the Church will learn what happens when insects interfere with gods." I pocketed the Behelit, feeling its warmth through the fabric. "Besides, if what I've read is correct, these artifacts always find their way to their destined owners eventually. Keeping it here might actually prevent another tragedy like the merchant."
Julius didn't look convinced, but he nodded. "Your risk, your consequences. Just don't let it drive you mad."
"I'm perfect. Madness isn't possible."
"Every madman thinks he's sane."
I smiled slightly. "An excellent point. I'll keep it in mind."
We returned to the upper levels, where the afternoon sun painted everything in amber. Julius had other duties, problems that required his attention. A dispute between merchants, reports from the front lines of the war, the endless administrative burden of maintaining a military fortress.
I returned to my tower, the Behelit heavy in my pocket. Once alone, I placed it on the desk and simply observed. The features continued their subtle shifting, eyes opening and closing, mouths forming silent words. It was trying to communicate something, straining against whatever laws governed its function.
But I was immune. A variable it couldn't account for. The realization was both satisfying and frustrating. I'd found a genuine supernatural artifact, proof that this world's deeper mysteries were real, and yet it was useless to me.
Unless.
An idea occurred to me. If the Behelit couldn't read me because I was outside this world's causality, what about someone who was firmly inside it? Someone marked by fate, someone whose despair was deep enough to trigger the artifact?
I would need a test subject. Someone desperate enough to be dangerous, someone whose transformation wouldn't significantly impact my plans. A controlled experiment to observe the summoning process firsthand.
But where to find such a person? I couldn't simply create despair, not authentically. The Behelit seemed to require genuine suffering, real darkness of the soul. Manufactured tragedy wouldn't suffice.
In a world where suffering was the common currency of existence, finding someone in despair should have been trivial. The streets teemed with the desperate, the broken, the forgotten. But true despair, the kind that called to cursed artifacts and summoned dark gods, that was rarer. That required a specific alchemy of circumstance and character, of pride broken and hope extinguished.
The Perfect Being sat in his tower, contemplating the nature of sacrifice, unaware that fate was already arranging the pieces. That even now, someone was walking the path toward their destined moment. Someone whose anguish would serve as the key to unlocking mysteries that gods preferred to keep hidden.
My contemplation was interrupted by screaming from the courtyard below. Not the typical sounds of training or discipline, but genuine terror. I moved to the window and looked down.
Chaos. Soldiers running in all directions, weapons drawn, shouting orders that conflicted with each other. And at the center of the confusion, something was wrong with the light. The afternoon sun seemed to dim around a specific point in the courtyard, shadows gathering in defiance of natural law.
I was moving before conscious thought caught up, leaving my quarters and descending the tower stairs at inhuman speed. The Behelit bounced in my pocket, its warmth increasing. It was reacting to something, resonating with whatever was happening below.
I emerged into the courtyard to find soldiers forming a defensive perimeter around a figure on the ground. A man, or what had been a man. He was convulsing, his body twisting in ways anatomy shouldn't allow. His skin was darkening, hardening, forming plates of what looked like chitinous armor. His face elongated, jaw distending, teeth lengthening into fangs.
An Apostle. Someone was transforming right here, right now.
Julius appeared at my side, his face pale. "What in God's name—"
"It's a transformation," I said, my attention fixed on the changing figure. "Someone activated a Behelit. But how? I have the one from the river."
"There's more than one?" Julius's voice was tight.
"Apparently."
The transforming man, I could see now it was one of Julius's soldiers, a young knight I'd seen training in the yard, let out a sound that was half scream, half roar. His armor burst apart as his body expanded, muscle and bone reshaping themselves according to some terrible blueprint. Wings erupted from his back, leathery and veined. His hands became claws, easily a meter long.
The transformation completed in less than thirty seconds. Where a human had been, now stood something else. Three meters tall, covered in black chitinous plates, wings spread wide, eyes glowing with unnatural red light. An Apostle in its true form, terrible and magnificent.
It looked directly at me.
"You," it said, its voice a grinding rasp that barely resembled human speech. "You don't belong here. You're wrong. The causality doesn't flow through you."
I tilted my head, intrigued despite the situation. "You can perceive that. Interesting. The transformation granted you enhanced senses."
"The God Hand showed me," the Apostle continued, taking a step forward. Soldiers backed away, maintaining the perimeter but clearly terrified. "They showed me everything. The flow of fate, the chains of cause and effect. And you're outside it. You're a tear in the fabric, a wound that bleeds corruption into the pattern."
"Flattering descriptions. Tell me, what did you sacrifice to gain this form?"
The Apostle's expression, insofar as it could still make expressions, twisted with something like anguish. "My brother. He was all I had left after the war took our parents. But the God Hand showed me my fate, showed me I was meant for greatness. All I had to do was offer what I loved most."
"And did you?" I asked. "Achieve greatness?"
"I achieved purpose." The Apostle's claws flexed. "They gave me a task. Kill the anomaly. Remove the variable that doesn't belong. Restore the flow of causality."
Julius stepped forward, his voice carrying authority despite the fear I could smell on him. "Stand down, soldier. Whatever you've become, you're still under my command. This being is under my protection."
The Apostle laughed, a sound like grinding stone. "Your commands mean nothing anymore. I serve higher powers now. Powers that existed before your kingdom, before your species crawled from the mud." Its eyes fixed on me again. "I'm going to kill you. And then I'll take my place among the chosen, a servant of the God Hand's will."
"You're welcome to try," I replied calmly. "Though I should warn you, being killed tends to be fatal."
The Apostle lunged.
It was fast, far faster than its size suggested. Claws extended, wings beating to add momentum, covering the distance between us in less than a second. The soldiers scattered, self preservation overriding duty.
I didn't move until the last possible moment. Then I simply sidestepped, letting the Apostle's momentum carry it past me. It crashed into the stone wall of the barracks with enough force to crack the masonry.
"Disappointing," I observed. "I'd hoped the transformation would grant more than simple physical enhancement. Where's the innovation? The creative application of power?"
The Apostle pulled itself from the wall, shaking its head. "Mock all you want. The God Hand promised me I could kill you. That I was chosen specifically because I could succeed where others would fail."
"Then perhaps you should try harder."
It came at me again, this time with more control. Claws swept in calculated arcs, wings provided maneuverability, its tail, I hadn't noticed it had grown a tail, lashed out to sweep my legs. It was thinking tactically now, using its enhanced form intelligently.
I manifested my bone blades and met its assault.
The courtyard became a whirlwind of violence. Claw against blade, inhuman strength against perfect form. We moved faster than the watching soldiers could track, our battle reducing the courtyard to a blur of motion and the screech of hardened keratin against chitinous armor.
The Apostle was strong, genuinely strong. Its claws scored my skin, the first thing to damage me since I'd arrived in this world. Shallow cuts, healing instantly, but still, actual damage. The transformation had granted it something beyond normal physical power.
"Finally," I said, grinning despite myself. "Something interesting."
I increased my speed, pushing past the limitations I'd been observing. The Apostle couldn't track me anymore, couldn't predict my movements. My blade arm found gaps in its armor, pierced through chitin into the flesh beneath. Black blood, thick and viscous, poured from the wounds.
But it wasn't enough. The Apostle was regenerating, its supernatural physiology healing damage almost as fast as I could inflict it. We were stalemated, two immortal beings locked in combat that neither could decisively win.
Unless I changed the parameters.
I withdrew, putting distance between us. The Apostle advanced, sensing opportunity. Its claws came down in a crushing blow aimed at my skull.
I caught them.
Both hands, gripping its wrists, holding those massive claws centimeters from my face. The Apostle's eyes widened, realizing too late that it had overcommitted.
"Let me show you," I said quietly, "what perfection actually means."
I began to change. Not my form, not yet. My biology, my cellular structure, adapting in real time to the threat before me. My skin hardened, forming diamond rigid plates. My muscles densified, packing exponentially more force into the same volume. My bones became denser than steel, my tendons like woven cables.
And I pushed.
The Apostle's arms bent backward, joints dislocating, bones snapping. It screamed, trying to pull away, but I held firm. I continued pushing, reversing the angle of its elbows until they faced the wrong direction entirely.
Then I yanked, hard. The arms tore free at the shoulders in an explosion of black blood and shredded muscle.
The Apostle stumbled backward, ichor fountaining from the ragged stumps where its arms had been. It was still regenerating, but slowly, the damage too severe for instant recovery.
"The God Hand promised you could kill me," I said, advancing on it. "They lied. Or perhaps they simply overestimated their creations. Either way, you've failed."
"No," the Apostle gasped, backing away. "No, they showed me, they promised, I'm supposed to—"
"You're supposed to die. Here. Now. Demonstrating that their power has limits." I manifested a blade from my arm, extending it to nearly two meters. "Thank you for the demonstration. You've taught me valuable information about what Apostles can do. Now you're useless."
I drove the blade through its chest, piercing the heart, or where a heart should be. The Apostle convulsed, black blood gushing from its mouth. Its eyes found mine, still defiant even in death.
"They're coming," it whispered. "They've seen you now. Seen what you are. And they're curious."
"Good," I replied. "I'd hate for this to have been a wasted trip."
I withdrew the blade. The Apostle collapsed, its supernatural form already beginning to dissolve. Within minutes, there would be nothing left but ash and the memory of what it had been.
I turned to find the entire courtyard staring at me in absolute silence. Julius, Aldric, dozens of soldiers, all frozen in various states of shock and terror. They'd just watched me tear apart a demon, and I hadn't even broken a sweat.
"Well," Julius said finally, his voice remarkably steady given the circumstances. "That was educational."
"Indeed." I looked down at the dissolving corpse. "Your soldier was transformed within your fortress, which means a Behelit was present. Someone else in your ranks is marked by fate."
"Or was," Aldric said quietly. "If the soldier sacrificed his brother, and the Behelit completed its purpose..."
"The artifacts return to circulation," I finished. "Which means it's already gone, already seeking its next owner." I pulled the Behelit from my pocket, the one I'd taken from the river. It was vibrating now, almost purring, clearly excited by the nearby transformation. "But I have this one. Which suggests there are multiple Behelits active in this region. An unusual concentration."
Julius's expression darkened. "Or they're being drawn here. To you."
That was an uncomfortable thought. But also a promising one. If Behelits were converging on my location, if the God Hand was taking active interest in my presence, then I was making progress. Drawing their attention, forcing them to acknowledge my existence.
Perfect.
"Clear the courtyard," Julius ordered. "Get these men settled, check for injuries. And someone clean up this mess before the ash spreads." He turned to me. "We need to talk. Privately."
We returned to his study, where Julius immediately poured himself a drink and downed it in one motion. He poured another, then gestured for me to sit. I remained standing.
"The God Hand sent that thing specifically to kill you," Julius said. "Which means they know you're here, know you're looking for them. And they're not happy about it."
"On the contrary," I replied. "I think they're very happy about it. Curious, at minimum. The Apostle said they could see I'm outside causality, that I'm a variable that doesn't fit their pattern. That kind of anomaly would fascinate any being with genuine intelligence."
"Or terrify them."
"Perhaps both."
Julius set down his cup and leaned against his desk. "I need to know what I've gotten myself into. What your endgame is here. Because if you're planning to war against literal gods, I need to know whether my fortress is going to become a battlefield."
"My endgame," I said slowly, "is to understand what the God Hand actually are. To test their power, their limits, their nature. If they're truly gods, then I want to know what that means in practice. If they're simply advanced beings operating on principles I don't yet comprehend, then I want to learn those principles."
"And if they decide you're a threat that needs to be eliminated?"
"Then we'll discover whether gods can bleed."
Julius laughed, the sound harsh and tired. "You're insane. You know that? Utterly, completely insane."
"Sanity is a cage built by lesser minds to protect themselves from greater truths. I've transcended the need for such comfort."
"Pretty words for what's going to get us all killed." But Julius was smiling slightly, the expression of a man who'd already committed to a dangerous course and found a kind of freedom in the certainty of it. "Fine. You want to hunt gods, I'll help you hunt gods. But on one condition."
"Name it."
"When this goes sideways, and it will go sideways, you get my people out. The soldiers, the civilians in this fortress, everyone who's followed my orders in good faith. They don't deserve to die because I made a pact with something I don't understand."
I considered that. The request was reasonable from his perspective. Protecting subordinates, maintaining loyalty through demonstrated care. Primitive leadership principles, but effective.
"Acceptable," I said. "If your fortress becomes a battlefield and you're overrun, I'll ensure the survivors escape."
"Thank you." Julius poured a third drink but didn't consume it immediately. "The transformation that soldier underwent, the Apostle form. Is that reversible?"
"I doubt it. The process seems to fundamentally rewrite the subject at a cellular level. They're not human anymore, not in any meaningful sense. Though I'd need to study one more closely to be certain."
"That thing said it served the God Hand now. Does that mean all Apostles are bound to them? Soldiers in some kind of supernatural army?"
"Possibly. Or they might be independent agents who simply share common cause. I'll need more data."
Julius finally drank his third cup, then set it down with finality. "Get your data. Hunt your gods. Just try not to destroy my city in the process."
"I'll do my best."
I returned to my quarters as night fell, my mind processing the day's revelations. The God Hand was aware of me, actively sending assets to eliminate me. That suggested concern, possibly even fear. Good. Fear meant respect, meant acknowledgment that I was a legitimate threat.
But the Apostle had also confirmed something troubling. I was outside causality, visible as an anomaly in whatever system governed fate in this world. That made me stand out, made me a target. But it also meant I couldn't be predicted, couldn't be planned for.
An advantage and a vulnerability, depending on perspective.
I placed the Behelit on my desk again, studying it in the candlelight. The features were still now, dormant. But I could feel its potential, its hunger for the right host. Eventually, it would find someone marked by fate. And when it did, I would be there to observe the summoning firsthand.
Far away, in a realm where distance had no meaning and time flowed according to different rules, four beings convened. The God Hand, assembled in the space between moments, observed the anomaly that had infected their carefully ordered universe.
Void, the leader, considered the problem with something approaching concern. For eons, they had existed as the arbiters of fate, the shepherds of causality. They chose who ascended, who fell, who lived and died according to the great design.
But this thing, this Perfect Being, existed outside that design. It could not be read, could not be predicted. It had killed their Apostle with contemptuous ease, demonstrating power that shouldn't exist in their realm.
"A wound," Void said in the language beyond language. "A tear in the fabric of causality. It grows wider with each action it takes."
"Then we seal it," Slan replied, her voice like honey over razors. "Send more Apostles. Overwhelm it with numbers."
"It would kill them all," Ubik observed, his tone analytical. "And learn from each encounter. No, direct force is inadequate."
"Then what?" Conrad's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "We cannot allow it to continue disrupting the flow. The balance must be maintained."
Void was silent for a long moment, his vast consciousness reaching through the threads of causality, searching for the anomaly's place in the pattern. But there was nothing. No thread, no predetermined path. Just a blank space where something should be.
"We wait," Void said finally. "Observe. The flow of causality will eventually incorporate even this anomaly, or it will reject it entirely. Either way, we will be ready."
"And if it seeks us out directly?" Slan asked, a note of anticipation in her voice. "If it finds a way to our realm?"
"Then we will show it what true power means," Void replied. "In our domain, causality is absolute. No matter how perfect it claims to be, it cannot exist outside the laws that govern all things."
The others murmured agreement, though Ubik's expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced. There was something about this anomaly that troubled him, something that didn't fit the patterns he'd observed for millennia.
But he said nothing. The God Hand had endured since time immemorial. One anomaly, however strange, couldn't threaten what they had built.
Could it?