The Eyrie, nestled high in the Mountains of the Moon, seems less like a man- made castle and more like a castle dreamed into being. It clings precariously to the sheer face of a mountain, a dizzying ascent from the valleys below. Its white stone walls gleam in the daylight, almost blending with the jagged peaks of snow and rock that surround it, as if the castle were carved from the mountain itself. Narrow bridges of stone span the plunging chasms, their delicate arches suspended in the air like threads of silk. The sky feels close here, the wind sharp and pure, cutting through the thin air with an icy bite. The world below feels distant, small, as if the Eyrie is not part of it at all, but a place that floats between the earth and the heavens