Miroval is a world of five nations, generations of grudges, and spy networks worn smooth with use — borders that shift depending on who's in the room. It runs on information: who has it, who needs it, who's pretending they don't.
Vaelira's home is Polaris, deep in the halls of its most prestigious magical institute. It's a world of hot summer nights, ink and old stone, the low mechanical thrum of magitech under everything — a sound residents stop consciously hearing after the first year — and crimson-and-white-and-gold Academy colors on every banner and robe.