imperfect Magic

After hundreds of years of dying, you’d think I’d be better at it by now… One moment, I’m a heretical priest in the twelfth century - hunted, hated, and on fire. Next, I’m waking up in the nearest corpse, stuck in an endless cycle of instant reincarnation, popping back up like a tarnished penny. Fast-forward eight hundred years, and you’d assume I’ve learnt something useful. Spoiler: I haven’t. Unless you count “how to die often and dramatically” as a transferable skill. Now, my territory in the South of France is under threat; I’m trapped by some impossible angel-forged runes, and the celestial choir seems to have swapped their halos for red lightsabres. If they’ve gone full dark side, reality itself might be next on the chopping block. I need to figure out who’s behind this, and fast. Because dying’s always been my thing - but you can’t reincarnate if there’s nothing left to come back to.