Illyria makes a faint, disgusted noise at the mention of it. The Rift. Something unnatural, indefinable, obstinately more powerful than she, and she is immediately predisposed to hate it. Nothing should be more powerful than she.

"An act of which I have no control," she spits out the words with quiet revulsion. The very notion of a God-King adhering to activities so indisputably human is simply not dignified. "Laws, foundations predesignated by this Rift. The things that do not sleep are made to succumb to it, and those which wield power are made weak."

She regards it to be a highly personal affront to her very being. The Rift, the thing that occupies intangible space, purposefully reducing her to a thing less than what she is. It is an act deliberate. A specific brand of attack upon her being. Illyria despises it, the Rift, and everything it represents because of it.