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

Out of courtesy for their former captain, or perhaps in spite of their newfound king, the Flameguard allowed Lynn to quickly change clothes while she was still inside the palace.

She was naturally inclined to put on her Flame-forged armor, but she figured the outfit would draw too much attention—and besides, if she ran into other Flameguard, it would only complicate matters. She couldn't be sure of the situation in the city until she saw things with her own eyes—so the more incognito her appearance, the better.

In a small washroom tucked away on the first floor of the palace, Lynn stripped to her undergarments and shoved the nightgown into her trunk. Then she donned a casual outfit of tight-fitting denim and a thick but flexible sweater; she pulled on her best pair of boots—ones without much of a heel, so she'd be unhindered in a fight.

Lynn stood over the sink and washed her mouth out, splashing water on her face to freshen up.

blood like fire (1).