Felix nods, runs through the steps in his mind one more time. They're doing this. They're really doing this.

Well, then.

He bows his head in concentration and lifts his hands, palms up. Light spills over them, violet and white edged with flickering blackness: the space-warping aura of conjuration magic. He chants a few words to focus it, but he could hardly tell you what they were.

What matters is this: he's reaching out to the wards that thread their ritual circle, tugging them into life like a spider completing his web. The sigils he marked out on the bricks take on a dim glow, barely visible in the daylight. Felix can feel the spells coming alive and knitting together neatly, an invisible safety net of his own magic around them.

He still looks up and shoots a little glance to either side, just to make sure. Then back to Harrow. "Harrowheart. You ask to renegotiate the terms of your binding. Are you ready and willing to do so?"

Which may seem obvious, but the cadence of his words has changed to something rhythmic and formal, so Harrow may guess that Official Ritual Time has begun.