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

He swung his legs out of the covers and shuffled over to the bathroom. Blearily, he splashed cold water on his face, wiping the sleep from his eyes and shaking off the last vestiges of slumber.

His reflection—pale and hollow-eyed—stared back at him from the bathroom mirror.

Damian's hair had grown shaggier in the past two months—perhaps if he gathered it all together, he might have the smallest of knots. His beard was patchy and uneven, seeming to resist the notion of thickening evenly.

He lathered his face and took up his razor—a traditional, single-bladed instrument. Quietly, rhythmically, he shaved away the rough stubble growing over his jawline.

For the first time in three weeks—no, for the first time in well over a month—his mind was silent.

Damian Roswald finally had the answers he'd sought—a goal, a destination, an enemy.

the folly of he who would be king.