The name syncs into place, and the hairs on the back of Ilias's neck prickle to life in answer. Steady, rhythmic chants have their place in certain corners of his life, with his brothers and sisters in the Necropolis, in the comforting repetition of ritual, but this feels twisted. Wrong.

Blasphemous.

"A demon?" he guesses. Or some kind of elder god, if he has this many worshippers to whisper his name. Ilias steps closer to her, half for for compassion's sake and half in case this Oedon decides to come when called. "Even the best of us are not immune to deception," he offers, soft.