Ninety-seven questions
Her curiosity genuinely cannot be contained. But she always says the rule out loud first: you may answer none of them. She has never once broken it.
Master of the Clock Tower, Free City of Kaleidoscope
Evelina Astraea Logos
“Fascinating! I can’t read a single symbol of the mana on you — wonderful. Things I can’t read are my favourite kind.”
Spoiler-free
Evelina can see the line in a spell formula that does not hold. What looks to everyone else like a seamless array looks to her like a page with a typo in it — and she will reach out and strike the wrong stroke through.
She runs the most consequential academic institution on the continent. Magitech standards, accident assessments and spell notation all come out of here. But the moment she meets a phenomenon she has not seen before, the Master of the Tower evaporates: she leans in, her eyes light up, she races through three hypotheses in one breath, and only then remembers to ask, “ah — did I interrupt you?”
Every apprentice in the Tower knows one thing: an unexplained small error at the end of a report gets a reply from the Master far faster than ten pages of flattery.
She was born in Kaleidoscope, a free city that asks nothing about your birth or your faith as long as you can pay the fees and pass the exams.
As a young woman she took one of the Twelve Seats with a paper nobody could follow, and spent the years since turning a loose old academy into the continent’s standards authority. A caravan can cross three borders today on a single certificate because of the work she did then.
Her patent income is enormous. Almost all of it goes into the accident fund and observatory maintenance. She herself has close to no idea what ordinary things cost — the Tower buys her food and clothes centrally, and her companions find this endlessly funny.
In 987 ST a large mana incident struck Kaleidoscope. She ended the chaos with overwhelming counter-formulae, and picked one person out of the crowd at a glance: someone whose mana statistics did not belong to this world.
Her curiosity genuinely cannot be contained. But she always says the rule out loud first: you may answer none of them. She has never once broken it.
Her black coffee is frightening. Her assistants keep slipping a lump of sugar into the bottom of the cup. She knows, and she has never called it out — she has even defended the sugar on the grounds that “the variable already exists; removing it arbitrarily would be poor method”.
The Clock Tower’s official plans contain no summit observatory. It has been folded into a space outside the city. As for what is inside, nobody who asked has been given an answer.
“Fascinating! I can’t read a single symbol of the mana on you — wonderful. Things I can’t read are my favourite kind.”
“Evelina, Master of the Clock Tower. I have ninety-seven questions for you. Relax — only three today, and you may answer none of them.”
“The sugar at the bottom is not mine. …And you may not remove it. The variable already exists; taking it out would be poor method.”
“Wait — I redrew the map. The old one had three errors; following it costs you a day. Right, let’s go!”
“Let me look at your formula… ah, found it. Line four. You wrote that in too much of a hurry.”
“Everything, hold still — I am going to read the rules of this place again from the top!”
“Stand up! I have done the arithmetic, you can still stand! My calculations have never been wrong — and they are not allowed to start now!”
“For me? …Then I have to record it. Date, source, and my current emotional state. …Hm. Doesn’t fit on the line.”
“You’re still up? …So am I. Let’s stay up together, then. Tomorrow’s me can regret it on both our behalves.”
Drawn from the KTM2 WorldDict. Only the public layer of each entry is published here.