The Conjuring Hour

The Conjuring Hour

Alicendra

The next morning hit like a slap from a sleep-deprived banshee.

I wasn’t even through my first cup of coffee when a calendar alert chimed: “Conjuring Hour - Talent Orientation, 9:00 AM. Studio B.” Bold. All caps. Davis-style urgency.

I stared at the blinking notification while clutching my “Hex the Patriarchy” mug and reconsidering all my life choices.

Studio B was located in the building’s south wing-a repurposed soundstage where sets came and went like cursed exes. I grabbed my tablet, an emergency granola bar, and my worn leather notebook filled with marginalia, magical shorthand, and profanity-laced to-do lists.

The essentials.

By 8:58, I was already regretting not bringing backup. Inside, the set was half-finished: glowing sigils projected onto a floor that still smelled like fresh paint, black velvet draped over skeletal light rigs, and a hastily summoned fog charm that was doing way too much. Typical pre-launch chaos. And right at the center, perched awkwardly on folding chairs in a loose semicircle, were the five conjurers.

I gave them my best Producer Smile™-warm, approachable, only mildly haunted, and stepped into the spotlight.

“Good morning! I’m Alicendra Wren, your talent lead. You can call me Alice. I’m the reason you’re here, and, assuming all goes well, the reason you’ll leave this experience marginally more famous and slightly less traumatized.”

A pause. Then a few chuckles. One audible scoff. Excellent. We had our skeptic.

“Let’s do a quick round of introductions. Name, specialty, and what you’d hex first if no one was watching.”

That got their attention.

A tall, pale man to my left leaned forward, elbows on knees. Late twenties. Sharp suit, sharper jaw. I could already tell he’d be trouble.

“Lucien Vale. I specialize in alchemical constructs and charm weaving. And I’d hex the IRS.” He smiled, teeth too white, eyes too cold. “No one would even notice.”

“Solid start,” I said. “Next?”

A woman with a neon-pink undercut and enough piercings to summon radio signals perked up. She wore a hoodie emblazoned with a spell circle and a smug grin.

“Name’s Mina Lux. Sigil work and light-based illusions. I’d hex anyone who uses the word ‘girlboss.’”

I nodded. “You’re already my favorite.”

Next was a soft-voiced man with a ceremonial staff too ornate for his flannel shirt. “Ezra Morgan. Ritualist. I’d hex… meetings that could’ve been emails.” A sorcerer after my own heart. Beside him sat a teenager-at least, she looked it, slumped with performative boredom. Dark lipstick, curse rings, and attitude for days.

“Rowan,” she said. No last name. “I do shadow binding and emotional projection. I’d hex my ex. Or my stepdad. Whichever gets to Hell first."

“Charming,” I muttered. “And last but not least?”

The final contestant looked up slowly, as if snapping back from somewhere far away. Her gaze caught mine, and I flinched before I could help it. She was older than the others-maybe mid-thirties-but some- thing about her presence felt… ancient. Quiet power wrapped in a deceptively plain sweater. She stood rather than sitting, straight-backed and watchful.

“My name is Seraphine,” she said. “I practice ancestral conjuration. Spirit work. And I don’t hex unless I intend to bury.”

The room went silent. Even Lucien stopped smirking.I managed a thin smile.

“Noted.”

As the group shifted in their chairs, muttering and sizing each other up, I felt that old buzz stir behind my sternum-magic recognizing magic. And something else.

Seraphine knew.

Not how much, not exactly-but something in her eyes said she’d seen past my carefully maintained curtain. I felt exposed. Unsettled.

And just a little curious.

“Well,” I said brightly, “since this show involves both conjuring and competition, we’ll be testing your abilities soon. Magical challenges, on-camera interviews, interpersonal drama-the works. Try not to hex each other in the first week.”

Rowan raised her hand. “What’s the prize?”

“Fame. Sponsorships. A slot in next year’s Arcane Expo. And the studio contract of your dreams.”

Lucien smirked again. “So, immortality. Got it.”

I checked my tablet and sighed. “You’ve got thirty minutes before the cameras roll. There’s coffee-sort of , in the green room. No blood pacts, no teleportation, and if anyone breaks the fog charm, you’re cleaning it with a toothbrush.”

They shuffled off in varying degrees of excitement and disdain. Only Seraphine lingered.

“Thank you,” she said softly, then added, “You hide your light well, Alice.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

But she was already walking away.

I closed the dossier on my tablet and glanced around Studio B as the talent milled around the catering table, poking at croissants like they might bite back. The fog charm was still pumping out ambiance like a middle school haunted house, but it would do.

The cast was strong. Too strong, maybe. A little unbalanced. That was good TV. That was chaos. That was spark.

And something told me this season of The Conjuring Hour was going to leave a mark.

I stood alone in the half-finished set, wondering for the first time in years if I should be worried.

Or if it was already too late.

On test days, the contestants arrived like meteorites—each with a gravitational pull, each with their own orbit of certainty.

Mina came in with a little entourage and the warm, practiced smile of someone used to being watched. She performed a sixty-second blessing like a Saturday morning ritual, and it landed like a friendly commercial.

Seraphine arrived in thick wool, eyes that measured the room in degrees of reverence. She read aloud from an old codex, and every person on set started breathing smaller.

Ezra arrived with a battered toolbox and hands that smelled faintly of metal and incense; he braided a charm in silence while technicians watched like acolytes.

Lucien arrived last, his entrance a study in timing; he turned the camera’s gaze like a magician turning a coin.

We filmed tests and b-roll and interviews that would later be sliced into narrative gold. The showrunner and I argued about tone until we both conceded to a hybrid that felt dangerously close to both spectacle and meaning. We decided on two judges: one who brought television gravity and charisma to the critiques, another a real academic to lend the show the weight of credibility. Production wanted spectacle; I wanted responsibility. We met in the middle and called it balance.