Thirty

The ashes were scattered on the battlefield. There was no blood in the fallen arena, but there was clear evidence of the massacre. No animal dared approach the area, there was no noise in the air. It was as if the place was trapped in a void of sound, of movement, of life. But if anyone was paying close attention, they would see the change. It was subtle, like the climbing of a single ant into a picnic basket. But then it grew, as if that one little ant called for others and they gathered into so many that it was no longer possible to ignore the takeover.

The ashes gathered around a single spot, pilling up to envelop that precious spark, the last thing clinging to life among the vast ruination