✍️ Vol 4: The Sting of Destiny
The Diaries of Mr. B. Archer
After leaving the Magic Library — still damp from an underwater swordfight and trailing ink like a poet on payday — I found myself wandering toward a curious flicker in the distance. A faint glow, pulsing like a disco light with purpose. There it was: Mystic Meg’s silk-draped fortune parlour. And outside, perched on a crystal ball the size of a jam jar lid, was Meg herself — the all-seeing moth.
“Ah,” she said without looking up, “you’ve got prophecy on your proboscis.”
I do enjoy a good tarot reading. Even if the last one promised I'd become Queen of the Dandelions (still waiting). Meg waved me inside with one velvet wing, and we began.
The cards shuffled themselves, dramatically. A hush fell. Fireflies dimmed.
She pulled three:
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The Winged Fool — upside-down. “Hmm,” Meg whispered. “Bold, but... easily distracted by biscuits.”
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The Nine of Pollen — “Unfinished business. Possibly something to do with sock drawer organisation.”
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The Sting of Destiny — the rarest card, glowing faintly.
“Ah,” Meg said, eyes wide. “The prophecy stirs.”
It turns out I’m destined to face my oldest foe: Sir Reginald Ticklebottom. A hornet. A charlatan. A blowhard with a monocle. We last crossed antennae at Beeversham Academy during an incident involving jam, fencing foils, and a misinterpreted dance routine.
Now, he’s back. And he’s polluting the hives with artificial nectar and poorly timed limericks. If I don’t stop him, the fields will fall silent.
So, I nodded. Sipped Meg’s suspiciously glittery tea. And set off for destiny, bow strapped tight, wings whirring with resolve (and mild fear).
And remember, young wings:
Destiny doesn’t always knock — sometimes it throws glitter and yells surprise. Be ready.