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Crossing the veil between realms always felt like drowning in ice water, a violent and disorienting plunge from the vibrant chaos of her world into the muted order of another. Wren emerged into the mortal realm’s equivalent of midnight, gasping slightly despite herself. The air here tasted wrong, thin and sterile compared to the rich, spicy atmosphere of her home. It lacked the scent of magic, ozone, and ambition. She stood in a small copse of trees on the outskirts of a sleeping human settlement, a location chosen because her scrying maps suggested it would be deserted at this hour.

She was right. The mortal world slept around her in a tedious, profound silence, broken only by the chirping of insects. After allowing herself a moment to adjust to the oppressive quiet, Wren checked her appearance. She had chosen a form that could pass for human upon casual inspection, tall and dark-haired with unremarkable features. Her natural, transcendent beauty was tamped down to something merely pretty, a disguise that chafed her pride like coarse wool. Drawing attention would be counterproductive to her mission.

The journey to the temple would take three days on foot. She could have used faster, magical methods of travel, but they would have left signatures of demonic energy that the Order’s powerful wards might detect from leagues away. Stealth required patience and, unfortunately, mundane travel.

She started walking, following dirt roads that cut through endless farmland in geometrically precise patterns. It was so orderly, so desperately boring. Demons built their domains for aesthetic pleasure and grand displays of power, with twisting spires and impossible architecture. Humans apparently built theirs for efficient crop rotation. By dawn, she had put significant distance between herself and her entry point. The rising sun, a pale and flavorless orb compared to the green fire of her own realm, revealed a landscape that made her want to set something ablaze just to add a splash of interesting color. Neat, identical fields stretched to the horizon in dull shades of green and gold. Farmers were already at work, their lives apparently consumed by agricultural concerns.

"Excuse me, miss?"

Wren turned to find an elderly human approaching from a nearby cottage. The woman's face was weathered and kind, her eyes a faded blue, curious but not suspicious. "Yes?" Wren forced her voice into pleasant, neutral tones.

"You look lost. Can I help you with directions?"

"I am traveling north to visit family," Wren lied easily, the falsehood rolling off her tongue without a second thought. "I am not lost, just taking a shortcut through these fields."

"North? You have got quite a journey ahead of you. Would you like some breakfast? I have just baked bread."

The offer was completely genuine, made with the sort of casual, unthinking generosity that demons would consider a fatal weakness. Wren's first instinct was to refuse with a sneer, but her cover required that she appear human. Besides, understanding the psychology of these simple people might prove useful. "That is very kind of you. Thank you."

The cottage was exactly what she had expected. It was small, tidy, and filled with rough, homemade furniture and the accumulated, sentimental debris of a long and uneventful life. Framed images on the mantelpiece showed smiling children and grandchildren. A simple wooden holy symbol hung above the door, radiating a faint, irritating warmth. The woman introduced herself as Margaret and chattered cheerfully while setting out fresh bread, hard cheese, and some sort of sweet fruit preserve.

"Are you traveling all alone?" Margaret asked, pouring her a cup of weak, bitter tea. "That is unusual for a young woman."

"I can take care of myself." Wren bit into the bread, which was admittedly better than she had expected.

"I am sure you can, dear. But these are dangerous times. They say demons have been spotted near the border settlements." The woman’s eyes widened slightly, a pantomime of fear. "The knights of the Argent Shield keep us safe, bless them. Have you seen their temple? It is a magnificent sight, up there on the mountain. It makes you feel safe just knowing it is there."

"I have not had the pleasure yet." The woman’s cheerful piety was physically uncomfortable to endure. The ambient divine energy in this realm was like a constant low-grade headache, and this woman’s concentrated, simple faith made it worse, like a needle pressing against her temple.

Margaret launched into a detailed, folksy description of the temple, including several local legends about its founding. Most of them were wildly inaccurate, but one detail caught Wren’s attention. Apparently, the main road to the temple passed through a village called Ashford, where pilgrims traditionally stopped to purify themselves before making the final ascent.

"Do many people make pilgrimages to the temple?" Wren asked carefully, feigning polite interest.

"Oh yes. Not as many as in the old days, of course, but the faithful still come to pray at the holy mountain. The knights welcome those with pure hearts."

Pure hearts. What a quaint and utterly useless requirement. Wren finished her meal, offered the appropriate thanks, and continued her journey. She passed through several more villages, each one a dull variation on the theme of rural mediocrity. Humans went about their small, predictable lives with an apparent contentment that she found baffling, completely unaware that a demon queen walked among them planning the ultimate act of sacrilege.

By evening, she reached a larger fishing town with an inn. Using currency she had acquired through less-than-legal means, Wren secured a room and a meal. The common room was crowded with travelers, and she settled into a corner to observe. Two men in merchant's clothes sat nearby, their voices pitched low but not quite low enough.

"...heard the Order is on high alert. Something about recent border incursions."

"My cousin serves as a supply driver for the temple. He says they have doubled the guard rotations."

Wren’s attention sharpened. Doubled rotations would complicate her approach, but not make it impossible. She filed the information away. That night, lying in an uncomfortable bed in a room that smelled of soap and human sweat, Wren stared at the ceiling and contemplated the strangeness of this realm. Everything here was so definite, so bounded by predictable rules and natural laws. The temple awaited, filled with warriors who believed absolutely in their righteousness. They would die to protect their precious mirror, confident that their sacrifice served a greater good. Wren smiled in the darkness. Their unwavering faith would make her victory all the sweeter.