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

Damian and Tia sat opposite Morgan Blackbriar in a richly decorated drawing room.

Far from the sparse and business-like function of the meeting rooms upstairs, this space was clearly designed for entertaining Blackbriar's compatriots and the upper-crust society of Tenebrae. The leather chairs were comfortable, the wooden table was clearly imported, and a gas fireplace kept the room pleasantly warm. Even the tea served to them by one of the staff seemed a cut above the usual fair, complete with complimentary cookies on the saucers.

"You say the High Table is splitting apart?"

Blackbriar looked over the edge of his teacup, the steam wafting before his clouded eyes. He took a delicate sip, every motion exaggerated, and only replied when he'd placed the porcelain cup down with a quiet chink.

royal flush.