"The principality," says Illyria with every fiber of regal self-possession in her being, "attempted to lay hands on my phone." It attempted. Its success was brief, and the God-King triumphed, clearly.

She looks at the demonic thing, her shell's expression smoothing into one of disdain. Why a creature of a Hellish nature would defend a divine being is somewhat beyond her understanding, but she does not care to investigate it.

"I do not fear you. Pit-creature." Not even in her diminished state.