Ezra quietly joined the rest of the group in cleaning the battlefield, while the people assigned to cooking had already begun preparing food for everyone near the large campfire that had been lit in the middle of the castle courtyard.
The night air carried a strange mixture of smells—burnt gunpowder, iron from dried blood, and smoke from the cooking fire that crackled slowly beneath the hanging pot.
The atmosphere should have been filled with celebration.
After all, they had survived the first wave, but instead of joy, the air was filled mostly with tired groans.
Everywhere people moved slowly, dragging their feet while forcing their aching bodies to keep working.
Some carried broken stones away from the wall.
Others scrubbed blood from the ground with buckets of water.
Several people leaned against the barricade for a few seconds before forcing themselves back to work again.
When Ezra joined them, the atmosphere around him became slightly awkward.
