Nurmengard
In a castle, swallowed by the Alps, stands a tower in quiet defiance against history while the mountains stare on in apathy, unconcerned by whatever bitterness, hatred, and regret reside in the topmost cell in the highest tower, for wars come and go as quickly as the seasons and the land stays strong, ever vigilant, waiting for magic to return to its greatest heights, but with each year the centaurs retreat further into their forests, the fairies lay less eggs than before, and the phoenix song fades into the black, into the little death of which Morgana once foretold.