She narrows her eyes at the principality's protests. It doubts her grandeur, as unthinkable as the concept may be. She evaluates it, the shell's head cocked to one side, and wonders if the exterior damage to its shell means that tearing the whole of its being to shreds would be an easier task. It seems likely, but simply killing it would be in violation to her oath and a dishonorable conclusion to their great and glorious conflict. Besides. It may prove to be useful, and she needs a new Qwa'ha Xahn.

The cold-bright sear of magic hums over her shell, and she feels the whole of her concentrated being tense in response. It has - cleaned her shell, purged it of her trophies and the external reminders of her glory.

Illyria glowers at the principality. This is a most unique and grievous form of betrayal. Surely it can understand, having engaged her in battle before, the honor of bearing such gruesome trophies upon herself?

"What have you done," she demands.