The rain is grating and not even a little tinged with the gore of her enemies. Illyria finds this unacceptable. She considers her trophy and how the fleeting, flickering mortal things that scurried in her world clung to such things in commemoration, though with their pitifully short lives Illyria cannot understand why they would bother trying to remember at all.

She is not like them. She casts the thing aside.

Everything here is different. Even the molecules. The air is charged, the very energy and fabric of this world abstracted. And everywhere, all over, there are vermin, scuttling in their tiny shells, unthinkably unaware of their God-King, and had she not made her promise she would be laying waste to this dimension right now and bringing it to its knees as she once did.

There is an encroaching energy, and she whips her shell around to face it. It dares approach her here and now and wrapped in its mortal shell. Illyria advances upon it, dark and wrathful, and halts when she sees the outline of its patterns. She knows it. She recognizes it.

"Principality." The word is iron, spat out, accusing. "You have brought me here."