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

On the corner of Hunter's Lane and King's Way, worshippers gathered to pray.

The church was small, with close to a hundred people crammed into the pews. Young children sat perched on the benches, idly swinging their legs, doing their best to pay attention while their mothers fussed over their clothes. Elderly citizens hobbled down the aisle, smiling gently as younger men vacated spots on the edge of the pews.

Daylight shone against the tinted windows, reducing the sun's rays to mere illumination. Although other parishes had renovated to use gas fittings, this particular church still used white candles, wax slowly pooling into gold candelabras, their tiny flames dancing gently.

shattering (scarlet).