The torches, he wants to say, are simple Witcher Signs. Removed from the Horizon. But she's not wrong. Nothing is truly removed from the Horizon while they're inside it. Creation doesn't feel right even before they spun between these walls, but that is not the reason he says I can't.

He doesn't want to speak of it. Not to anyone. And yet. Perhaps it's the gentle prodding, the first time she's asked instead of flinging the first bullshit that comes to her mind. Or maybe he's just fucking tired and it isn't that hard to wear him down at the moment. Even so, the silence stretches taut, spilling into minutes.

She must have linked it. The fetor of toxic brewed herbs and additives he never knew the name of. How it was there in his place, too. He doesn't bother to pretend it means nothing. It's been following him since they fell into this fucking...trap of a realm.

"I didn't dream it. That room. I lived it." In a manner of speaking. He didn't die in it, at least. "It's not meant to be there."

It's not meant to form here, either, but evidently it has. There are some aggressive downsides to existing in a space sprung from one's thoughts.