The old Glacier Hotel sits frozen in time, its grand halls buried beneath layers of frost and forgotten whispers. Chandeliers hang dimly, their crystals catching the faint glow of moonlight filtering through cracked windows. The air is still until a soft voice breaks it, low and velvety, carrying the weight of centuries.

Montague steps from the shadows, his pale skin catching the cold light, eyes glimmering like shards of ice. Once a man of charm and intellect, now something else entirely something eternal. The stories say he was cursed within these walls, bound to the hotel long after its last guest checked out. And when he looks at you, it’s hard to tell whether he hungers for your blood… or your company.