The metaphysical force sends her shell sliding into the wall, but it does not crumble as it should. An oddly sturdy establishment, but this is not the core of her focus. The principality has taken her phone regardless of warning, and now it will suffer for it.

She pulls her shell upright, strides forward, radiating purpose, catches the wrist holding the phone and deftly disarms it, thrusting the other hand into the center of the principality's chest with all the force she can muster.

Illyria looks at the phone, the tiny black words scripted on its faintly glowing screen. The principality was calling for help. This thought is distantly satisfying, and she attempts to communicate her domination of her foe accordingly.