Hartford, Hart, Williams stepped out of the transport van into a world of frost and wonder.

The ice hotel loomed before him, ethereal and otherworldly.

Its crystalline walls glowing faintly under the Arctic twilight.

The towering structure carved entirely from ice reflected the dim sunlight in a kaleidoscope

of blues and whites, a frozen masterpiece of artistry and engineering.

Hard had seen pictures online, read the travel blogs, watch the videos, but none of it compared to the surreal reality of standing here in person.

It's smaller than I expected, someone murmured behind him.

Their voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around their face. The heart disagreed.

The ice hotel seemed enormous to him, less like a building, more like a cathedral, raised in worship

of the cold itself. The sheer grandeur of it made his breath catch, though that might also have been the biting chill of the Arctic air.

The bulled his park got tighter around himself and took a deep breath.

The frosty vapor curling in front of his face.

Welcome to the ice hotel, the cheery voice broke through the silence.

A tall man with curly hair and an easy grin waved from the entrance.

I'm Larry, your ice concierge for the week. Trust me, you're going to love it here.

A group of guests shuffled towards the doors, their boots crunching over the snow-covered pathway.

As hard approached the entrance, he felt a pang of unease, but he couldn't quite place.

The hotel's icy façade seemed to shift under the pale light, as though the carved walls

were breathing, suddenly expanding and contracting.

He blinked, and the feeling was gone.

Inside the ice hotel was a revelation. and the feeling was gone.

Inside the ice hotel was a revelation.

...