It does not know her. How can it not? Has time passed enough in its universe that her ancient glory can be so easily forgotten? Perhaps it is this shell, this shape. She is not so easily recognized in this small, fragile shell.

"Illyria the Merciless," she says, drawing her shell's chin up imperiously. "God-King of the Primordium."

Those words should mean something to it. Those words should strike terror in the miserable hearts of all vermin, every tiny scuttling creature that dares challenge her.