Long before the Peverell name was engraved on golden-eyed tombstones, when it was only a whispered oath amidst the Celtic mists, there lived Morríane. She was not a warrior of legends, but a "Weaver of the Veil." Her work was simple yet delicate: to speak with those who no longer had a voice and to ensure that the world of the living and the world of the dead did not stumble upon one another.
For her, death was not a tragic end, but a crossroads. And at that crossroads, the Aithon, the Ravens of the Threshold, held sway.
Morriane was the first to see one of them without running away in fright. She found it in a forest of black ash trees, a place so ancient that even the air felt heavy. It was summer, but upon entering the clearing, she felt that bone-chilling cold. There, on an ancient stone, sat the raven. Her eyes were like molten silver; they weren't looking at her, but at what she would become.
The bird said nothing, but filled her head with images. Morriane saw families born and die, and in the midst of it all, she saw a green-eyed boy with a strange scar. A boy who treated death like an old friend, without fear.
"You haven't come for me..." Morriane whispered, her heart pounding. "You've come to choose someone."
The Aithon descended from the rock without making a sound with its wings. As it touched the ground, Morriane felt such a powerful pressure that she ended up on her knees, not out of fear, but out of pure respect. The raven showed her a crystallized tendon on its wing, dark and glistening.
Morriane realized that the animal was completing its cycle. Those of its kind don't leave bodies when they die; they become mist... unless they choose to leave a gift.
Morriane understood the deal. With a trembling hand, she cut her palm with her wooden dagger and let her blood seal the pact.
"By my life and by my death…" she said, her voice soft but firm. "I promise this will serve the balance."
The raven rested its forehead against hers. For a second, Morriane felt as if she were flying above the world, which was both shadow and light. When she opened her eyes, the raven was nothing but silver dust in the wind. The Gift of the Threshold was born.
For Morriane, creating the wand wasn't a woodworking job; it was something personal. She had already chosen her wood: a branch of black ash that she herself had tended years before. She sat in her cave, sweating and with aching fingers, carving the wood until her hands bled. When she tried to insert the raven's crystal into the wood, it repelled it with cold sparks.
"Be at peace," she told them, as if speaking to small children. "Now you are one."
She used her own magic to seal the crack. The wood absorbed the glass, and the wand was ready: 38 centimeters of dark elegance. Upon touching it, Morriane felt a precious silence settle in her mind. This wand doesn't choose just anyone; it judges them.
Centuries later…