The Black Stone Mine had completely changed its appearance.
The sound of iron pickaxes chiseling against the rock strata once more echoed through the valley. It was no longer a lifeless, despair-ridden pounding, but carried a new, powerful rhythm.
The crude wooden sheds had been patched up just enough to keep out the wind and rain. Thick porridge simmered in several large iron pots, sending up billowing steam; the fragrance of rice mixed with wild herbs chased away the lingering stench of blood and hopelessness in the air.
Chapter 72