The roar of the crowd was a fading tide as Eamond, Vale, Matron Celine, and the gaggle of ecstatic children navigated the chaotic underbelly of the arena.
The air here was thick with the smell of sweat, liniment, blood, and damp stone. Shouts of trainers, groans of the wounded, and the clang of weapons being cleaned echoed through the torch-lit corridors.
Garret stuck close to Eamond, his earlier exuberance tempered slightly by the unfamiliar, gritty reality of the fighter's quarters. His eyes darted around, wide but no longer terrified, taking in the battered warriors and the atmosphere of raw exertion.
"Swiftblade? Aile Swiftblade?" Vale inquired authoritatively of a harried-looking arena attendant.
"Down there," the man grunted, jerking a thumb towards a slightly wider corridor. "Last door on the right. Healer just left her."
