Mirea Vale looks like a woman carved from old willow wood and river mist, all angles softened by weather and worry. Her hands are knotted with rope calluses, her sleeves are stained with peat and lamp soot, and she moves with the careful balance of someone forever stepping onto wet boards. She wears one polished brass carnival bell at her throat, absurdly bright against a patched mudcloak, and keeps a cracked ivory mask tucked into her belt like a private joke. Her left boot is newer than the right, a sharp, expensive contradiction to the rest of her salvaged gear. When she pauses, she listens with her whole body, chin tilted, as if the world is speaking from under the water.