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 two Damian Roswalds acted without hesitation.

For the first moment since the chaotic introduction of the interloper into this timeline, both Damians were synchronized, their souls aligned by the bloodlust on the breeze—the imminent threat to their lives and everything they held dear.

The future-borne Damian was closer to the door, and far more physically fit than his younger self. He sprang forward, an unspoken command calling the Apostles to life. The white-masked clergy pulled blades and spears from their own shadows, an instantaneous army ready for the former-Ninth Seat to lead.

The question fell from Damian's lips as he jumped to his feet, Astrid's feather-blade in his grasp. He already knew she was feared by the Holy Order and the Collective alike—but if there was anybody whose combat assessment he trusted most, it was himself.

The Interloper hesitated, a dark shadow passing over his face.

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