The Turn of the Glass

A slender brass hourglass stood upon the dark walnut desk, its lower chamber laden with pale sand. Such instruments dare to measure the fleeting hours of mortals, yet time itself must answer to a greater design. Planting the golden butt of my serpent staff firmly against the leather blotter, I reached forward with my clawed right hand and seized the fluted metal pillar. With slow, calculating pressure, I inverted the glass on its central swivel. The pale silica hissed softly as it plunged through the narrow waist in an obedient cascade. Let the night trickle away; every falling grain brings me closer to my throne.