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

The manor's rooms were expansive and decorated with all the luxury of any noble's residence, albeit one that had fallen into disrepair. The curtains were moth-eaten and the rugs were desperately in need of a dusting—for all their strange abilities, the Collective's Apostles did not seem particularly suited to domestic chores, which made Damian wonder who'd made dinner.

Somehow, the thought of his manic future-borne self cooking up a family-sized dinner for his captives was quite terrifying.

That madness in his eyes…

Damian turned onto his back and stared at the dark ceiling.

A single gas-lit lamp sat on the bedside table, turned to the lowest setting possible; with the sky so inky and black, opening the curtains at this hour of night would do nothing at all. In the dark, strange flecks danced across his eyeballs, and in their place, he saw the Flame and the Deep that haunted the Ninth's eyes.

midnight of futures past (1).