Freyja, Goddess of Nature and Fertility, stood in the void between realms. Well, at least, that was what it was referred to by mortals. The realm itself was not the place they so feared and talked about, where demons lurked and gods avoided.

The realm was something else entirely whilst also being similar enough for confusion. It was just the stepping stone between realms, an expanse so large and great that it acted as a bridge for gods and even certain mortals. Freyja looked at the black horizon of this realm, which she knew led to other worlds. Other mortals. Even other gods.

"Can you feel it?" she asked softly. "The sense of change."

Someone grunted behind her, his gruff voice showing disinterest. Freyja turned around to look at her current companion, who watched on at the distant Tree of Fate. He wore a cloak and hood that concealed most of his attire yet betrayed his sickly figure and hunched back. He glanced back at Freyja, his single eye narrowing.

"A sense," Bartholomew scoffed. "It's more or less a tempest that blows through the tree, its frigid winds threatening to tear it all apart."

He looked back at the Tree of Fate, which stood like a glowing monument in this oblivion. Freyja examined its canopy, watching as another smaller section of branches twisted and morphed with each other, their fates all constantly switching between pink and black.

"He's been busy," Bartholomew said. "What exactly did you tell him?"

"Only what he needed to hear," Freyja said as she walked up to the God of Fate. Despite being a relatively younger deity, Bartholomew looked much older and frail. She idly wondered if the Divine Powers that gave him his station were rejecting his body but discarded that thought. The body of a god usually took the form of their true selves, no matter the age.

If Bartholomew's true self was to be a bitter old man, well, Freyja couldn't exactly argue with powers beyond her knowledge, vast as it was.

"War and death," Bartholomew muttered as he grabbed a floating blossom, its red hue brightening as he lived its future. "That's all I see now, Freyja. Are you sure about him?"

"It is a gambit," Freyja admitted. "But so was Matthew Kord, no?"

"Matthew Kord was chosen through prophecy," Bartholomew said. "He was fated to save Azura. The Outlander, on the other hand, has no such fate. If anything, he will doom us."

"I know," Freyja said. "I have seen it myself when I looked through his blossoms. However, there is hope that he will stray from that path. He only needs to be guided."

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"Guided," Bartholomew echoed. He grabbed one more blossom, a pink one that was fading into a black future. "How can we guide someone who was never supposed to exist?"

"So you know."

"Of course I do," Bartholomew said with a scowl. He flicked the blossom and selected another. "I am connected to the Tree. I can feel its intent. Its efforts. It loathes Holter. It wants nothing more than to destroy his presence on Azura. For it knows what his future brings. The Outlander is a sickness that does not belong here. Perhaps it'd be best to send our Heralds to kill him."

"It won't work," Freyja whispered. "You and I both know it. Something twists around him. As if something stronger than Fate itself is contorting reality to keep him alive. To keep him on track toward something else, something more."

Bartholomew paused just as his hand grabbed a blossom. It was a pink petal, brightly glowing like a miniature star. It flared as the god lived through its future. He gasped a second later, his fingers letting the blossom slip.

Freyja caught the small petal as it fluttered around, her fingers pressing gently against its fragile luminance.

The world around her flashed for a few seconds, showcasing her darkness. It shifted in place before revealing the true scene. An ash-laden sky, with a red sun that burned at the landscape below it. Freyja watched the horrific scene, her eyes focused on the sole denizen of this future. Only once did she see their purple eyes that the vision ended.

She blinked as she returned, her eyes looking down at the blossom. Not a single speck of black tainted it. Her brow furrowed, and she turned to where it had come from. Her perfect eyes focused on a lone branch that had a similar coloring to the blossom's stem. It was twisted and black, showing that this person had been an unpredictable person in life once before.

"Can the Tree produce pink blossoms from dead branches?"

"No," Bartholomew muttered. "The dead have no future."

"Then rumors have some weight to them," Freyja said. "How troubling..."

"I do not want to believe it," Bartholomew said. "But my followers have reported to me strange happenings all over Azura. Talks of dead gods and abominable creatures. Forces that moved beyond our own divinations and light. It has his name all over it."

Freyja stared at the lone twisted branch in that tree, her eyes narrowing as memories of old were dredged up. Memories of a time when ancient monsters and young gods clashed throughout the Etheran Stars. A time when demons made deals with foolish mortals. She watched as more blossoms bloomed out of its darkened wood, all bright pink.

"My followers, too, have reported such strange things," Freyja said. "We can stay idle no longer, Bartholomew. It is time that we assume the worst case scenario. That he managed to trick Fate itself for this long. That he has been lurking in the shadows all this time. That the Mad King himself, Astellar, is out there somewhere, somehow alive."

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