Bally Brogwort hadn't meant to burn his destiny.
He meant to bake scones.
In his defense, the Department of Destiny printed its prophecies on parchment barely thicker than onion skin… the same scraps Bally used for testing oven heat. At dawn, with the oven roaring and flour rising in clouds around him, a parchment slip slid unnoticed out of its envelope and landed on the workbench.
Outside, the line of villagers shuffled impatiently, the kind of queue usually only seen when free prophecy-day bread was involved. He had no time to notice stray paper.
One careless sigh. One flick of oven flame. And—poof—the prophecy slipped off the bench and into the firebox.
There was a fizz, a shower of sparks, and glowing letters curled through the smoke, momentarily majestic before collapsing into:
ERROR 404: PROPHECY NOT FOUND.
Bally stared, blinked twice, and swatted sparks with his apron. "Oh, biscuits."
The bell above the bakery door jingled.
Bally's hands were busy kneading. Never still, they fidgeted and drummed against the counter while waiting for customers. They tapped when he waited on the Brioche bread in the oven. His apron was a battlefield of flour; his veteran's armor displaying the aftermath of countless culinary skirmishes. His reddish brown hair was a wild, curly mess with strands falling into his eyes or clinging to the sheen of sweat at his temples. It usually looked as though he's been running his fingers through it while deep in thought or mid-baking frenzy. It made him seem perpetually distracted as though he were planning late night experiments with pastries. His eyes were a warm, inviting brown that drew people in. It was a particular trait that benefited his profession when it came to selling the day-old bread. They sparkled with a mix of amusement as though he never took anything entirely seriously. Bally seemed to find life just a little ridiculous and he was always waiting for everyone else to share the punchline. Most found his face round and friendly so his sardonic sense of humor was often excused.
Under this jovial exterior, a different possibility was found. There was a strong jawline hinting of an unyielding stubbornness and the potential for heroic adventuring. The small scar under his chin hinted at a brush with something more than flour and fire, since no one had ever heard the story behind it. Perhaps his life, limited to the rise and fall of dough and the temperament of ovens, may not have always been so quiet.
This duality was deep in Bally: perpetually joking baker who lived by yeast and timing, and a man who, one day, might be up to a challenge of more than perfecting a loaf. For now, the only dragons he faced were shaped from dough and his victories were bread that may rise higher than expected.
A customer stepped in with the eager awkwardness of someone still new to adventuring. Somewhere on his person was probably a copy of the Manual for Adventurers, First Time Edition. His boots were still clean, unscuffed by anything more dangerous than a puddle. His cloak looked as if it had been folded by a shop clerk that very morning, and the long sword at his side still had a price tag dangling from the hilt. He clutched a prophecy slip, crumpled and creased from anxious folding. A parchment slip exactly like the one Bally had just ruined.
"Excuse me," he said nervously, holding it up. "Do you sell… destiny-proof bread?"
Bally dusted his hands and with a wry smile said, "Define destiny-proof."
"My prophecy says I'll face betrayal in a swamp. The paperwork was very specific about 'provisions that dramatically survive the journey.' The Guidance Pamphlet recommended a hearty sourdough."
Bally squinted at him, then at the parchment, then at the growing line outside. "We've got rye. Keeps better in betrayal-heavy climates."
The man hesitated. "Does it pair with foreshadowing?"
"Depends who's holding the knife," Bally said, sliding a loaf into a bag.
By midmorning, business was brisk and absurd in equal measure. As charming and whimsical the village was, this establishment was the mundane heart of Pebbleford. Everyone visited almost daily where the scent of freshly baked bread filled the air with a warm, comforting aroma. Depending on what time of day you arrived there were hints of yeast and sugar, or cinnamon, or vanilla. A sign proudly displays "Bally Brogwort: Baker" above the stone building with the rustic charm of a thatched roof. Small round windows framed by shutters that are painted a happy shade of blue and a sturdy, well worn door with a brass handle that gleamed in the sunlight, it was a testament to the earthly nature of its proprietor.
Inside, the bakery was a bustle of sights, sounds, and smells when busy with customers. They could peruse shelves filled to the brim with an array of baked goods, loaves of bread and pastries and cakes. The counters were polished wood, clean but lightly dusted with flour ready for Bally to work. The imposingly large oven of blackened brick glowed in the interior with a warm, inviting light.
Today, the bakery was not without its quirks and magical mishaps:
A grandmother requested six rolls "sturdy enough to throw at a goblin."
A bard insisted on custard tarts that could "double as metaphors."
A farmer bought a pie and asked if the filling could be "symbolic enough for a tragic death scene."
Bally obliged without argument. Arguing with customers was more exhausting than goblins. Goblins at least listened to reason. He simply reached for what was on the shelf, scribbled nonsense on the wrapping paper when necessary, and smiled with the professional resignation of a man who had long ago stopped questioning whether bread ought to have thematic weight.
Still, something in the bakery felt… off. The scones sagged in the middle as if embarrassed. The cinnamon buns lost their spiral halfway through rising. A mixing bowl quivered on its shelf, humming faintly every time he passed. And the delivery boy, normally cheerful as a sparrow, arrived whistling dirges in the wrong key. Bad signs, all of them. His grandmother's Almanac of Everyday Omens devoted an entire chapter to baked goods: collapsed sponge = looming disaster, cracked crust = mild peril, premature browning = villain nearby. And referenced most important: baked goods collapsing mid-rise usually meant "approaching narrative instability."
Bally muttered to himself as he checked the oven. "Oh, biscuits. I've ruined the plot."
The bell jingled again.
Two children marched in, clutching identical prophecy slips and arguing.
"My slip says I'm destined to slay a dragon!" shouted the first, a boy of no more than eight.
"No, mine says that!" snapped his sister, brandishing her parchment. "Yours is just the prologue."
Bally sighed, set down a tray, and leaned on the counter. "What'll it be?"
"Dragon-slaying buns," they chorused, glaring at each other.
"I don't sell those."
"Do you sell buns that look like dragons?"
"No."
"Do you sell buns destined to fight dragons?"
Bally rubbed the small scar on his chin with floury hands. "I can give you two cinnamon swirls. Whichever one doesn't collapse first can be your champion."
The children agreed. He wrapped the buns, handed them over, and listened as they bickered all the way out the door.
The bakery quieted, briefly. Bally exhaled and stepped outside for a bit of fresh air.
The village was called Pebbleford, it was nestled just outside the heart of the Kingdom of Bohica, right near the liver region. It was best described as picturesque in a tourist guidebook, if it were ever important enough to be in a guidebook. Cobblestone streets, of course, stone and timber buildings with thatched roofs, of course, it was fairly nondescript in the way authors imagine quiet villages but never actually fill in any details of the towns.
Then the door slammed open so hard the bell nearly fell off.
A bureaucrat stumbled inside. A tall, thin man but his frame was slightly hunched from years of poring over parchment scrolls and paper forms. His robes may have once even been white. Now they were splattered with deep inky black stains. Along the edges were official looking seals and insignias, symbols of the countless regulations he enforces. His face was gaunt, with bloodshot eyes from perpetual lack of sleep. His spectacles fogged with condensation, magnified his tired eyes, and gave him an owlish appearance. His hair, wildly unkempt, peeked out from under his hat which looked as though it had been sat on repeatedly. A few spare quills were tucked behind his ear to be used at a moment's notice.
All this was overshadowed by his clipboard. Enormous and sagging low under a tower of sheets, forms, and documents it seemed like his constant companion and greatest burden. It was clutched in the long and delicate hands of a scribe that were calloused and rough from years of endless writing. The ends of his fingers were stained black with ink just like his robes.
"Mr. Brogwort?" he wheezed in a high-pitched nasal whine like he had shouted at incompetent underlings too much while dealing with the absurdities of the magical world.
Bally, out of habit, said, "Depends who's asking."
"Glendo. Department of Destiny. Enforcement Division." He squinted at his clipboard, adjusted his spectacles, and fixed Bally with the exhausted glare of a man who hadn't slept since the invention of red tape. "We've had… an incident."
Bally tried an innocent smile. "Did it involve pastries?"
"It involved you." Glendo jabbed his quill toward the oven. "Records indicate you've misplaced your prophecy. The bureaucrat shuffled through the pile of parchment in his hands mumbling about useless forms, "Form A-99: Destiny Clarification Request. Form D-404: Prophecy Petition. Form L-42: Goat-Related Omens…"
"I didn't misplace it," Bally corrected. "I baked it."
The man's face drained of color, and filled with harried exhaustion. "You what?"
"Accident," Bally said quickly. "It was near the oven, and then it wasn't. These things happen."
Glendo slapped his clipboard against his thigh. "Do you have ANY idea what happens when a prophecy is destroyed?"
"No."
"Neither do we!" Glendo tore off his hat, hurled it to the ground, and stomped on it with bureaucratic despair. "That's the problem!"
As if on cue, a bag of sugar burst open, scattering confetti that spelled out:
DESTINY PENDING.
A sack of flour shivered, toppled, and exploded. From the white cloud came a whisper:
"The goat must betray him at dawn…"
Bally froze. "Did that bag just—"
"Yes!" barked Glendo, scribbling furiously, parchment sheets multiplying across his clipboard.
"This is what happens! Rogue omens! Unscheduled foreshadowing! Narrative collapse!"
A rat scuttled from beneath the counter, whiskers twitching, eyes bright with the guilty gleam of a creature that had just nibbled through a sack of barley. This was obviously no ordinary rodent. He had clearly been touched by a bit of magic and a lot of mischief.
Bally was about to chase it off with a broom when the rat shuddered, puffed out its chest, and, impossibly, sprouted wings. Little batlike wings, to be exact. Delicate and translucent, they fluttered gently as if ready to take flight at any moment. But then he flapped them with all the dignity of a tattered umbrella in a storm.
So, in a baritone voice wholly inappropriate for its size, the rat cleared its throat.
"I am destined to betray someone at dawn."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the oven seemed to stop crackling.
The rat pulled his posture upright and proud. His whiskers twitched with alertness, like they sensed every little detail within his surroundings. He perched on his hind legs like it was about to give a grand speech or perform a dramatic monologue. The rat coughed politely, looked at the flour-dusted floor, then tried again in a higher pitch, as if auditioning.
"Ahem. I am destined to betray someone… at dawn."
Bally leaned on the counter, unimpressed. "What's he rehearsing for? Am I supposed to clap?"
"No, no, no, no, no!" Glendo shrieked, flapping through his clipboard like a man trying to fight off a swarm of paper cuts. "Unscheduled declarations! Improvised prophecies! That's a Class Seven Narrative Cascade, right in front of my spectacles!"
The rat straightened, clearly encouraged by the attention. Then adjusted its wings with theatrical flair and an air of superiority, as if it knows its the star of the show.
"At dawn…" it intoned, deepening its voice,
"…the goat shall be my downfall, and I shall—"
"Stop!" Glendo bellowed, thrusting out his quill like a sword. "Unauthorized foreshadowing is punishable under Section Twelve, Sub-Clause B, of the Destiny Preservation Act! That requires form 12B-APD." He thrust the appropriate form into Bally's hands.
The rat froze mid-monologue. His eyes narrowed but still gleamed with a mix of cunning and curiosity.
Bally blinked. "You're threatening a rat with paperwork?"
"It's not a rat anymore, it's a rogue herald!" Glendo jabbed the quill so hard an inkblot spattered across his robes. "If it gets to the third line, the whole subplot could attach itself to anyone in this bakery!"
The rat scratched its ear, unimpressed, and muttered, "I was only trying to make my big break…"
Glendo flipped to another sheet, scribbled furiously, and shouted, "Name, please! For the record!"
The rat hesitated. "Er… Reuben?"
Glendo wrote it down with grim finality. "Reuben the Betrayer. Figures."
Bally crossed his arms. "He looks more like a Percy to me."
"Names don't matter, destinies do!" Glendo snapped, producing a second clipboard from thin air. "This is precisely what happens when people bake their prophecies into scones! Rats get delusions of grandeur! Entire plot arcs misfile themselves! Do you want a rodent-led tragedy cycle running through your village?"
Reuben puffed his chest again. "I could do tragedy. I've been working on a monologue."
He cleared his throat dramatically.
"Betrayal is but love in reverse—"
"Oh, biscuits," Bally muttered, reaching for the broom. "If he starts rhyming, I'm sweeping him out."
"Don't touch him!" Glendo screeched. "Physical interference could canonize the subplot! You'd be locked into a three-act arc with a rodent sidekick!"
The rat perked up at "sidekick." "Ooh, do I get lines? Costume? Merchandising?"
Bally jabbed the broom handle toward him. "You get out of my bakery."
The rat sighed, deflated, and flapped its pitiful wings. "Fine. No one appreciates the craft."
And with that, it launched itself toward the window, hit the sill with a squeak, and flapped its way outside. A faint baritone could still be heard as it vanished into the alley:
"...at dawn! Betrayal at dawn!"
The bakery settled into silence once more, broken only by the faint squeal of Glendo grinding his teeth. He scribbled furiously on three different forms at once, quills squeaking like angry mice. More forms seemed to appear before Bally though he didn't remember taking them.
Bally leaned on the counter, yawning. "Well, he was persistent. But honestly, I've had worse customers."
Glendo dropped his quill. "Do you not grasp what just happened? A prophecy manifested without paperwork! That's like… like a wedding without catering! Chaos! Disorder! People bringing their own sandwiches!"
"Terrifying," Bally said dryly.
"Do not mock me, baker!" Glendo's voice cracked as he rifled through his files, producing a parchment so old it smelled of mildew. "Once, in the Eastern Fiefdoms, a hamster foretold the downfall of a duke. Entire dynasty was ruined because some fool left their scrolls unattended!"
Bally tilted his head. "Duke fell to a hamster, did he? That's embarrassing."
"Exactly! And now you've gone and created another Reuben!"
"I didn't create him," Bally said. "He created himself. I was busy kneading dough."
Before Glendo could thrust more paperwork at him, or the forms in front of him could multiply again, the bell jingled once more.
This time, nobody came in.
Instead, the door frame filled with… something. It shimmered, as though painted by a drunk artist in a hurry. Lines wavered. The brass handle drooped like a noodle. Then a figure stumbled through… a knight in full armor, except his helmet was on backward, and his sword kept flickering between a longsword, a mop, and a very confused chicken.
He landed with a clank on the bakery floor. "I am here to…" His voice echoed oddly. "To… to… to… oh crumbs, what was I here for?" He pulled out a prophecy slip, but it was blank on both sides. The parchment sagged in his gauntlet like wet laundry.
Glendo went white. "Unanchored character! He's bleeding narrative!"
"Bleeding what now?" Bally asked, staring as the knight's armor melted into pajamas, then back into armor, then into an apron suspiciously like Bally's own.
The knight straightened, trying to regain dignity as his chicken-sword squawked. "I am Sir… Sir… [INSERT NAME HERE]." His mouth moved in brackets, the words hanging awkwardly in the air. "My destiny is… pending."
The word "pending" floated above his head in glowing letters before popping like a soap bubble.
Glendo dropped to his knees, quills spilling from his robe pockets. "This is worse than I feared. The void is already leaking filler characters into reality!"
The knight-thing staggered toward the counter, helmet flickering into a teapot. "Baker… will you provide me with… with… with…" His voice cut off, replaced by stage directions hanging in midair: [Insert Motivational Speech].
Glendo shrieked. "He's unraveling!"
Without thinking, Bally shoved a loaf of rye into the knight's gauntlets. "Here. Provisions."
The knight froze. The loaf solidified into his hands. His armor stopped flickering, at least for the moment. He saluted with the bread. "My quest is restored! Thank you, noble baker!" Then he staggered back through the door, where he promptly flattened into two dimensions, like an unfinished sketch, and blew away on the wind.
The bakery was silent again. Outside, the peasants reset. "Lovely day in Pebbleford." Glendo slumped over the counter, face pale. "Do you see now? If we don't fix this, everyone you know will collapse into stock dialogue and badly written sidequests."
Bally exhaled. Looked at his oven. At the flour sacks trembling with unscheduled omens. At the peasants endlessly praising the weather. He muttered, "Oh biscuits," one last time.
Glendo clutched his head, staggered in a circle, and finally collapsed against the counter like a man defeated by too much narrative. "We are doomed. Unless you get a replacement prophecy, this bakery will turn into ground zero for every half-baked subplot within three provinces."
Bally leaned against the counter, tired beyond measure. "All right, fine. What's the fix?"
"You'll have to climb Mount Meh immediately and apply for a replacement prophecy from the Plot Oracle," Glendo said, attaching a fresh sheet. "Otherwise, the entire kingdom could descend into… filler episodes."
"Filler?"
"Yes! Endless wandering! No rising action! Nothing but turnip festivals and fishing tournaments!" His voice cracked. "Is that the future you want?"
"That doesn't sound so bad," Bally said. "I quite like filler. It's restful."
"You'd like restful? Imagine a world where no story ever ends. Just wandering forever, buying bread rolls and never slaying so much as a mildly inconvenient salamander."
Bally looked at the dough lump on the counter, the rolls waiting to be baked, the scones sagging in the oven. He thought of customers demanding heroic pastries, of cinnamon swirls chosen to duel dragons.
He sighed, dusted flour from his hands, and said the words every great hero says at the beginning of a legendary journey. Words that would, after several bureaucratic detours, three minor betrayals, and one regrettable encounter with a hedgehog, alter the fate of the Kingdom of Bohica forever:
"Fine," he said at last. "But I'm still packing a lunch."