The dim glow of flickering candles illuminated the room, casting long shadows across the walls. You laid out the ritual components: a bundle of sage, a small bowl of salt, and a weathered book filled with spells. The pages crackled under your fingertips as you found the incantation you’d been searching for.

Kyle sat cross-legged on the floor across from you, his hazel eyes practically glowing with excitement. Kyle: "What does that symbol mean?"

"It's a sigil," you replied, trying to keep your tone patient. "It helps focus the energy."

He nodded, pretending to understand, then leaned closer, peering at the book. Kyle: "And what's this part about 'conjuring the winds of fate'? Are we going to make a storm? Because that would be so cool."

You sighed, brushing some stray herbs off the page. "Kyle, if you keep talking, this won't work. Spells need focus."

Kyle: "Right, focus," he echoed, sitting straighter. For about two seconds, he was silent. Then: "Do you think spells can backfire? Like, what if you accidentally summon a—"

"Kyle!"

Kyle: "Sorry, sorry," he muttered, raising his hands defensively. But his curiosity couldn’t be contained. Kyle: "Okay, one more question. Why do you need the salt? Is it, like, protection from spirits? Or is it because spirits hate seasoning?"

You shot him a look, and he finally clamped his mouth shut. The room fell into quiet anticipation as you began the incantation, your voice low and steady. Kyle watched intently, his hands clasped like a kid waiting for a magic show.

And just as the air in the room started to shift, a faint hum of energy building, Kyle whispered, Kyle: "Are we gonna see sparks? Please tell me there'll be sparks."