The sound of cheering erupted in periodic spouts from the deck of the ship, drunken cries of delight echoing across the black water. The cool wind beat gently in the open sails, and the ship glided along the water like a blade on ice—smoothly, quickly. The boat's easy passage was swift, and other than the continuous cries of celebration, silent.

Aifread leaned over the forecastle railing, staring into the water. Between his fingers dangled a gold chain, a ruby glinting from its end in the clear starlight. His uncharacteristic pensiveness drew the attention of a blasted shipmate, who stumbled over to him, sloshing a bottle of premium Palmacostan whisky.

In a stilted, desperate attempt at coherent speech, the shipmate asked him what he was staring at. From what Aifread could translate, he was asking him why he took the time to stare off meditatively into the distant sky instead of celebrating with the rest of them.

"I don't know," he replied, well aware that whatever excuse he could come up with would soar over the man's head like a flying fish over the water. The man, suddenly bored with harassing Aifread, stumbled back down the stairs to the gun deck, where a lively song was being strummed up by the wasted chantyman.

Everyone on the ship was singing wildly. It had been smooth sailing, especially in the last couple of days. Even after the near-complete destruction of Palmacosta, the sea's oldest and most notorious tradesmen had rebounded, nearly ebulliently, ready to take advantage of the chaos. Price gouging, looting, ransoming… you name it. And Aifread would've been wholeheartedly at the forefront of such lucrative endeavors had his entire ship and crew not been destroyed before his eyes with one fell swoop of a violent tree root.

Palmacosta generally prepared itself quite well for emergencies: hurricanes, fires, plagues, and all manner of the usual disasters. This cataclysm, however, was wholly unprecedented, unanticipated, and unmanageable. Half the city was under water, the other half torn to shreds by what seemed to be the malicious roots of a giant tree, impossible to burn, with bark harder than rock.

No one knew where the tree had sprouted from. Some said it was a god, an ancient, evil god, jealous of the people's devotion to Martel, revitalized and out for revenge. Others said it had come from another world, and after having depleted its homeland's mana completely, it was now going to suck the sustenance out of Sylvarant like a botanic cannibal. Yet others insisted the tree was an ancient entity that had been hibernating for years, ready to spring to life when given the chance. They were insane, all of them. All the stories, all the people. Insane with grief and fear.

Whatever the ancient horror was, it had taken everything from Aifread. He had watched the harbor splinter like kindling under the massive tendrils of the giant tree, he had watched his livelihood, his comrades, sink under the water in an otherworldly blur. There was no time to act, there wasn't even enough time to truly understand what was happening. He had run, as any sane man would, and miraculously, he had lived. Many others had not been so lucky.

What remained of the city was barely recognizable. By the time the calamity had passed, and the townspeople had regained their senses, few walls were still standing. The harbor had sunk into the foaming grey sea, and the town square was nothing but a pile of rubble, crushed like a clod of soft dirt between the fingers of the giant tree.

Some people had tried to chop those roots and branches, to rebuild, to at least light fires and warm themselves, but it had proved impossible. The tree was invincible, immovable. Those rich enough to afford an escape left the city immediately, those too poor to escape either died or barely scraped by, looting emergency stashes and eating whatever dead sea animals came floating into the remains of the harbor.

In the days and weeks after the disaster, those whose possessions had survived returned to reclaim them. They took their gold, heirlooms, art and anything of value with them on their carriages, toward the north. Others boxed up their remaining treasures and sent them afloat on the ocean toward Luin.

Rumor had it that where Palmacosta had fallen, Luin had risen. The city of water had become the city of rebirth, and there was no better place for the displaced Palmacostan upper class to go. There was safety to the north—safety and the chance for a new start. The rich loaded all their heirlooms and valuables onto any surviving ships and sent them to the newly reborn colony, either accompanying their treasures or making their way to Luin over land.

It was one of these vessels that Aifread's party had managed to overtake and rob. They had hauled over whatever gold they could onto their own ship and sunk that creaking liner, not bothering to take any prisoners.

Aifread watched the ship sink into the depths of the sea, her crew either going down with her flaming hull or taking their chances by jumping into the dark water. He watched them flail in the foam, screaming for help or mercy, but Aifread could not tell if they were appealing to their gods or to the very pirates that had sunk them. He had felt very little guilt—after all, coldness was a necessary trait of his occupation—but he had not been able to banish the worry that had planted itself in his gut at that moment.

He nursed that worry all the way to nightfall. When the others had opened the bottles of fancy, aged whisky taken from the stores of wealth aboard the northbound ship, when they had rolled in the treasures and fine silks they had pilfered, Aifread separated himself from the revelry.

He wondered why he was so morose this particular evening. He had taken his share of the loot, which was generous, considering his station. He was no longer captain of his own ship, and had entered the lowest rung of the hierarchy of this one, so he had expected to get less than he usually did. His meager share was still enough to make his heart sing. That was not what was picking at his insides and ruining his night.

He must be mourning the comrades of his old boat—or perhaps more likely, mourning the boat itself. It had been a small but fast vessel, manned by a reasonably skilled crew. He was making a good living, he had a girl in every port, even one that kept sending him letter after letter that he never opened… he'd had it good then, and considering the circumstances, he had it good now.

So he wondered why he did not feel the need to go down to the gun deck and join his comrades in song. The chantyman on this vessel had a knack for pulling wonderful ditties out of thin air, and coaxing as they were, Aifread preferred to stare at the stars. For some reason, he felt like this might be the last chance he had to look at them.

His instinct turned out to be reliable, as always. The next day, when he emerged from belowdecks, in place of the usual sky streaked with blues and grey loomed a shadowy purple haze.

The sun was missing. The wind was gone. The currents had stilled. The ocean and sky had been swallowed whole by the unfamiliar violet glow.

The crew began to panic.