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

Damian felt the knife against his skin.

His hands started to move, but his reaction was too slow. The clumsy flesh of his human body was a limitation; his muscles were tired from fighting Maria Frost and recovering with only the Aspect of Vigor.

The Deep-made dagger was colder than ice.

The edge was razor-sharp, forged from the nothingness that comprised all the dark places in the world. A glass-like edge honed from the abyss, capable of slicing through metal and wood and bone alike. The soft flesh and wiry sinew of a human's throat were nothing to this reaper's scythe.

Hot blood bloomed from his throat, spraying into the air like water under pressure.

Time moved slower, as though the world had been immersed in molasses.

The scarlet stream of lifeblood held itself in mid-air, partway between entering his body and leaving it.

no going back now (seven angels).