To presume a god would not keep her oath would be a false presumption, and a foolish one at that. She has failed to locate the principality at its place of books but locating its current living place was of little effort to she who once conquered untold millions. She knows its energy, she can smell the trails of the emotions radiating from it, those that smell so pathetically human yet should not be present at all.

But no matter.

She has located the building, she has favored the looks of alarm she received on her way (they are well-earned, heads should turn and the masses should gaze upon her grandeur), and she has found it, the door.

The door that does not open.

In Illyria's times of glory it would have simply swung open at a glance from its superior.

Here it is inert.

She stands and stares at it. It offends her, its very existence, by being an object so mundane and simple and human and yet yielding nothing, feeling nothing, doing nothing in the face of a god.