"I'll set the third," she replies. "I'd rather be certain than have to--"

She cuts off with a hiss as the feedback along that slim connection forged by her newfound powers abruptly changes, as either the fire reaches the door, or the Sylphid trapped inside rethinks his target. It isn't pain, exactly, because plastic has no nerve endings to conduct pain. It's a feeling of profound wrongness, and maybe a month from now, two months, six, she'd be able to maintain concentration through it and still manage to do something else, but right now?

Now, she sways slightly, bracing herself with one hand flat on the ground, fighting a surge of nausea at the sense that her bones have reshaped themselves inside her skin, flexing and stretching out of true. She withdraws her power with a gasp, and the door grates open, hanging wrong on its hinges where the fire had begun to buckle it. The trapped Sylphid staggers out, half-blind and choking - while others may be more fortunate, he, at least, didn't receive the ability to breathe smoke along with the pyrokinesis.