BrettMichaelOrr

“You can bring back everyone you’ve lost. It will only cost your sanity.”

The king is dead, murdered by an interloper from the future—a manic copy of his own son, hellbent on forcibly reversing a disastrous timeline. The true Damian Roswald—a hedonistic crown prince bereft of magical talent—finds his comfortable life upended by his father’s murder and assassins from his own future.

“There are none left who can judge us, so we must be our own executioner. That is the cursed fate of those few named Damian Roswald.” 

With politicians plotting his demise, his royal cousins scheming for the empty throne, and warring churches tearing the grieving city apart, Damian must accept the tragedy of his countless futures—or else, find himself doomed to repeat them. But can a mere mortal decide their own fate in a world governed by almighty angels? 

“Find me, Damian Roswald. And I’ll tell you why the stars fell.”

For three centuries, even the wisest men have accepted that the night sky was once populated by ‘stars’—until a terrible calamity plunged mankind into a Dark Age. From the darkness, the Roswalds rose to power, but few know that the first crown was forged with the blood of a slaughtered god…

Damian must endure countless tragedies and the consequences of his own future actions to reach the peace he desires—but could the true threat be hiding not in his future, but in his own distant past?

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A Thread of Broken Fate

Leon Roswald leaned back in his chair and took a long drag on his cigarette.

The tip glowed brightly, a valiant effort against the near-constant presence of the Deep that clung to every corner of his private quarters. On the sofa nearby, a black cat—its fur so silky and dark it seemed almost like a shadow itself—watched their guest with keen yellow eyes.

Leon blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling.

He directed his question to the man sitting opposite him.

Garbed in white, with a red-hued chain coiled around his neck, Bishop Obediah wrinkled his nose at the cigarette smoke. The holy man folded his hands in his lap, a number of gaudy rings glimmering on his fingers, each containing a fragmentary Cinder—nothing like the power of the Rosa Regalia, but a force to be reckoned with nonetheless.

a breath of war.