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

"—My lady, you really mustn't disturb the king—"

"—you should return to your rooms and rest—"

Lynn slammed the doors open, ignoring the prattling of the two servant girls behind her. The Flameguard that flanked the doorway were too slow to react, their mouths open in shock at seeing their captain seemingly alive and well. She had already barreled right into the heart of the Throne Room before anyone had done so much as lay a finger on her.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Titus?!"

Lynn glared at her brother, her face contorted into a hateful expression.

She hadn't the time nor wherewithal to find her trademark armor; instead, she wore a dressing gown wrapped around her chest, the belt tugged so tightly it seemed to be cutting off circulation.

The armed Flameguard entered the room, cautiously looking between their new king and their former captain, as if unsure whom they should be defending.

the legacy of he who would be king.