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

Tia Alessia scowled at Leon's bristling attack, her thin eyebrows pinching together.

She glanced at the body of the fallen Flameguard and stepped aside to ensure the blood wouldn't spread to her boots.

"Your Highness—Leon, please. Please believe me when I say that I didn't know any of this would happen. My dream of a unified Rosweiss has not changed."

Leon's eyes slid from the blonde girl to her two partners-in-crime. Neither were immediately familiar to him, certainly not the dark-skinned youth who hung back, carefully watching the conversation unfold. The other person's identity, however, became more apparent the longer Leon looked, as if he was staring into a cracked and dirty mirror.

"—Another Damian Roswald," Leon breathed, a low chuckle escaping his throat. His voice was hoarse from consuming shitty prison food and cigarettes for a week straight.

the future we (deserve).