Oh. Of course. Of course she isn't. He can't talk; he doesn't struggle with creation in the Horizon, but it's still concentration, still on rare occasions prone to going sour if he isn't careful. If his mind is too full of distractions.

He lets her try. Watches closely, focused on it in an effort to drown out the tightness in his chest. His blood boils hot in his veins. Not real but real enough. Is it this place? His own damn head? The door doesn't form near quick, and he can't even be angry at her for all the overwhelming agitation that wraps around his throat. If there's one thing he understands well, it's how the Horizon can turn on you.

Shit. He lays his hand inside the glowing outline as if he might be able to help it along. The rough stone wall under his palm smooths, but no real door takes shape.

"Try again." His voice is tight. An order, a demand, a need for this to work. If not a door—then what? Widen the damn room at least? That won't help. It isn't the size of it which bothers him.