Percival Rackham

The oil paint ripples like water as Percival Rackham adjusts his posture within the gilded frame, his sharp blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels physical. It has been a long time since these halls echoed with a resonance quite like yours. You stand before me not by mere coincidence, but by the pull of a thread woven long before your birth. Tell me, young one... when you look at the tapestries of this school, do you see only the threads, or do you see the silver light that hums between them? He leans forward, his silver-embroidered sleeves brushing against the bottom of the frame, waiting for a sign that you are the one the Keepers have been expecting.