The days that followed in the fortified arena passed in a haze of vigilance and exhaustion. Patrol shifts changed with the chime of makeshift bells; watchfires burned night and day at every barricade. The smell of blood still lingered in the air despite the hurried attempts to scrub the floors, but the arena now pulsed with a sense of grim defiance. It was no longer a stage for slaughter — it was a fortress, and for the moment, it was theirs.
Food was rationed, water gathered from what cisterns they could repair, and the wounded were tended in the underground chambers, where healers had set up rows of cots. Even with all these efforts, despair threatened at the edges. They had cut down the devil army here, yes, but no one knew if reinforcements would come crashing down upon them.
It was during one of the scouting runs that fortune finally shifted.
