“Everything dies," said Prieto. "Even the angels.”
Diago barely heard him. Movement within the hourglass caught his attention. A low rumble pulsed through the floorboards. The base of the hourglass rattled against the tabletop. Yellow sand swirled in miniature tornados, gusts and twirls made to dance to a hidden rhythm. The reverberations beneath Diago’s soles grew stronger. The table shook. The mancala board rattled to the edge and tipped over, spilling the marbles to the floor.
Within the hourglass the sand danced, coalescing into a single funnel that spun toward the upper chamber. Prieto stood and unfurled three sets of silver wings that descended down his back. The colors in his eyes whirled like the dangerous clouds before a storm. A great wind filled the room and drove Prieto’s illusions into the mists.