This time his blow provokes a cry from her, a wrenched-out grunting twisted noise, the vocalization of her fury and pain and frustration from the swordstroke. After the blow hits she retreats and circles, warily, seeking out her next opportunity and ignoring the pitted ache that blazes in the parts of her being with which the sword connected. Its pain is low and visceral; unnatural.

Pancakes' low, whistling wails command her attention, but only briefly. Her pet is in pain, just as she is, despite having only touched the principality for an instant. There is connection here but it is one Illyria is uninterested in investigating at the present time. The battle calls for her. She will not deny its importance.

The principality hesitates, its concentration slipping but for a moment, and Illyria pounces. This time she targets the hand bearing the sword, her greatest threat. Iron in her grip, she seizes its wrist and applies to it a brutal torquing grasp, ferocious and unrelenting, squeezing with all her concentrated might, and slams her other hand around its neck to wrap her shell-fingers around it, vicelike.

"You are tiny," she whispers into its shell's ear, her voice alight with the promise of victory.