The morning of Glahar Mountain unfolds with a light tint of purple and blue gradually blending into the horizon's white, revealing the dawn—after the stars retreat into the white sky, the forest on the mountaintop forms a unique silhouette under this Glow.
However, the mining area's time starts even earlier; it's still pitch dark when the sound of wooden whistles rings out.
The flickering light of the oil lamps casts profound black shadows on the ground. Brand, like others, is called out of the camp—into the chilled air of the mountain forest before dawn—he looks at the object in his hand, feeling uncertain.
It's a Cross Pickaxe, its rough wooden handle nearly four feet long, seemingly having passed through many hands. The handle's surface, smoothened by use, has no protruding splinters, and the deep grey pickaxe's tip is somewhat blunt.
