Prologue: Administrative Error 42-B
Centuries ago, long before the Great Revision of Fate and several memos before Common Sense was formally abolished, the Department of Destiny made a clerical error.
To this day, no one is entirely sure who signed the wrong form. Records indicate it may have been a Tuesday, and therefore no one’s fault. What is known is that a single misplaced comma, tucked somewhere between “designated hero” and “general population,” resulted in every man, woman, and moderately sentient goat within the Kingdom of Bohica being officially prophesied as The Chosen One.
For something.
At first, chaos reigned. Armies of heroes marched to fulfill conflicting prophecies: one to save the world from darkness, another to defeat the darkness’s administrative assistant. The Department of Destiny, realizing its mistake, convened an emergency meeting that lasted forty-seven years and concluded with the motion to “pretend this was always the plan.”
Thus began the Universal Prophecy Mandate: a carefully managed system ensuring every citizen receives their personal destiny slip in the mail—delivered quarterly, stamped, sealed, and occasionally singed by divine lightning for authenticity. The slips read much like jury summonses:
“Congratulations!
You are the Chosen One.
You will slay the Dragon of Uncomfortable Silences.
Estimated Date: 3–5 Business Years (subject to scheduling and other provisions).”
Most citizens take their destinies in stride. Farmers receive prophecies about rediscovering ancient hoes of power. Librarians are tasked with the resurrection of forgotten catalogues. A tailor once fulfilled a destiny involving “the hemming of fate itself,” though witnesses insist it unraveled shortly after.
When questioned, the Department clarified that “prophecy misprints are not errors, merely interpretive opportunities.” Scholars have debated whether this randomness reflects divine will or simply poor filing, though most agree it’s probably both. But the Department of Destiny, in its infinite paperwork, assures the public that “all narratives will be processed in the order they are received.”
And so, life in Bohica continues: quietly absurd, mildly enchanted, and perpetually behind on its paperwork.
Which brings us to one Bally Brogwort, professional baker, part-time philosopher of yeast, and accidental destroyer of his own prophecy.
