Shield your eyes, they order the mortal in the transient span of time before the Morningstar's shell unravels itself. The unholy blaze lights the darkened red of the Hellish skies and throws upon the clouds a burning white cast, the parody of a halo. Its voice is a bright tortuous smear, something twisted and corrupted beyond what even many of the demonic creatures below can tolerate. Those that did not melt away in the white fire of the Morningstar's being are hollowed out by the thundering aural force.

Illyria's shelled body braces itself for the inevitable clash of two unknowable forces. They are old enough to have seen things of the Morningstar's ilk before. But this thing is a paradox of existence, the darkest of all Pit-creatures shrouded in divinity.

The battle will be grand and destructive. The scuttling mortals they have fought so hard to inexplicably save will perish by the thousands, provided such a great number of them have lasted so long.

And yet - the sight of the thing infuses them with a modicum of dread. Illyria's form is built for dominance; the Morningstar's is tailored for pure destruction.

Then it will be your ruin, they answer, summoning every shred of righteous, ironclad pride in preparation to strike with all their godlike force. This is violence. This will be a mighty battle, and it will remind them of their glorious war-drenched origins.