And one hand fastens itself around its throat, forcing its head back. The principality is still squirming, so Illyria grasps a fistful of its wing. The mass of feather and bone feels so fragile beneath her shell's fingers; it feels that she could crush it with little effort but she merely holds it in an iron grip, her warning.
"I have been left with so little," the God-King says, "and you would elect to take even that."
no subject
"You would take what is mine."
And one hand fastens itself around its throat, forcing its head back. The principality is still squirming, so Illyria grasps a fistful of its wing. The mass of feather and bone feels so fragile beneath her shell's fingers; it feels that she could crush it with little effort but she merely holds it in an iron grip, her warning.
"I have been left with so little," the God-King says, "and you would elect to take even that."