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

Morgan and Tia Void-stepped out of the 14th Precinct, using the cover of night to navigate the myriad pathways of darkness with ease.

They emerged atop a building somewhere in the middle of Rosweiss.

The sudden exit—and the yawning distance to the ground below—caught Tia by surprise and she stumbled. A wave of dizziness assaulted her, but her father gently held her back from the building's edge.

At her sharp glance, he released his grip on her arm, and Tia steadied herself.

The building was perhaps ten stories high, positioned close to Rossheim Palace, on the banks of the River Rose. The night sky above them was—as always—inky black and formless, a blank canvas dyed the color of pitch. Down below was the opposite, an inversion of the heavens and earth, where bright lights swarmed about—far more than the usual number of late-night commuters.

"It appears our new king's reception has been far from perfect."

my father’s daughter.