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 couldn't pretend to be shocked—the blind man knew everything through his connection to the Deep. Knowing that Damian had a knife nestled against his breast wasn't out of the question.

Damian reached into his jacket and grasped Astrid's feather-blade, the hilt both warm and cool to the touch at the same time. Gently, he pulled the weapon free of the impromptu scabbard, and laid it out on the wooden table.

Tia murmured appreciatively at the weapon, while Blackbriar only gave it a cursory examination.

Up close, the blade appeared to have been crafted by the world's most skilled blacksmith. Two elongated feathers—one black, one faintly amber—were wrapped around each other, the thin barbs carved like the finest filigree. One side of the blade—the amber-hued side—was keenly honed, while the opposite side—the darkened feather—was dull.

one step into insanity.